welcome readers & writers. first, many thanks to De Langer, abuxtonkutch (welcome new poster!), FilmGuy, Trica, Brian & Bess for your great dog stories yesterday. lots of smiles to be had reading them. and speaking of smiles...
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today's writing prompt is this photo of a downtown mural. what do you make of it? here's where my mind goes: -
As the old man drones on, the vertigo comes again and presses down hard. Why do I sit and smile as if he's sane? As if all is well? It's not. He's not. And only a few of us know it. To everyone else, he the hung the moon.
As the old man drones on, the vertigo comes again and presses down hard. Why do I sit and smile as if he's sane? As if all is well? It's not. He's not. And only a few of us know it. To everyone else, he the hung the moon.
-
The last breath I exhaled will not let itself be replaced and my heart pounds. Maybe I'm the crazy one. Or the universe has reversed itself like a photo negative. Bad is good, lies are truth. Seeking my bearings, I look around at others "in the know." One slumps in his seat and stares at the floor. Another is texting. Number three meets my eye and makes a pistol to the skull gesture.
The last breath I exhaled will not let itself be replaced and my heart pounds. Maybe I'm the crazy one. Or the universe has reversed itself like a photo negative. Bad is good, lies are truth. Seeking my bearings, I look around at others "in the know." One slumps in his seat and stares at the floor. Another is texting. Number three meets my eye and makes a pistol to the skull gesture.
-
My attention shifts to him again as I hear the words, "If you want to know the truth..." For one gullible second (shit. shit! why do I let myself go there every single time?) I imagine him actually telling the truth: I shouldn't be the one up here giving advice today. I am a drug addict. I am mentally unbalanced and haven't put forth a genuine ounce of effort in my work or personal life in at least fifteen years. God, how brilliant! The meeting would erupt into chaos, and I would bear witness to the shattering of the glass dome (her name is denial) that holds the whole room hostage. I can hear its sharp crack and feel the wondrous sting of those jillion pieces, too tiny to be glued back together.
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But of course it's still lies. Shiny and sweet and laced with arsenic. Shoveled on a silver platter by grim reaper hands that used to belong to someone I loved.
But of course it's still lies. Shiny and sweet and laced with arsenic. Shoveled on a silver platter by grim reaper hands that used to belong to someone I loved.
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i'm so interested to read your interpretations of this photo! submit your story, poem or creative non-fiction below by clicking on comments. 250(ish) words. i'm flexible.
i'm so interested to read your interpretations of this photo! submit your story, poem or creative non-fiction below by clicking on comments. 250(ish) words. i'm flexible.
