*****
After today, just seven more days. That makes me a little sad. Sure, I’m ready to get back into my usual routine, but I’ve had some shining moments this month that are hard to let go. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned this month, it’s how to keep moving, and that means moving on after this month.
Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:
For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six or so) of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem (six or so), though it's fine if you do.
Interestingly, the prompt I’d selected from The Writer’s Book of Matches is the antithesis of regret. Funny how things work synergistically like that, without any planning or intent. Here’s your second prompt:
I know it’s terrible, but I kind of like hurting people.
That one could leap genres without breaking a sweat. Can’t wait to see what you come up with later in the comments.
Bearing Witness--The Wall
-
Today they started building The Wall. When I woke this morning and went
down to the kitchen, Mum and Dad weren’t there. I followed the low murmur
of the ...
7 years ago
5 comments:
This six clocks in at eleven. For shame.
Served Up Cold
I know it’s terrible, but I kind of like hurting people. Take my mom, for instance; I owe that bitch big time.
Take last month when I told her I thought I was pregnant. The look on her face was priceless, all gawping and eye blinking and her neck mottled red. That was for all the times she called me a slut.
Or then there was the time I packed my shit while she was at work and just vanished like David Copperfield. That was for all those times she told me she wished I’d never been born.
I still owe her for all the shit with my stepdad, for all the times she pretended he wasn’t beating the snot out of me. But I’ll get her. You’ll see. It’ll come to me. And when it does, I’ll get that bitch good.
Maybe you should feel some shame about eleven, maybe not. One thing you shouldn't be ashamed of is the content. That was some good stuff.
Here's mine. A little cliché on the ending, but I hope you'll forgive it. It's funny what some people will regret, I suppose.
A Day Late
Jack pushed the tray to the side, knowing the nurse would eventually stop by and take it all away. He stared at the newspaper article, the one with the picture of him on the gurney and the headline that read, Hero Takes Bullet, Foils Bank Robbery, and wished the nurse could take all of that away, too—the news, that day, that gunman.
The funny thing was, because he’d lost his job and the mortgage company was threatening foreclosure, Jack went to the Savings & Loan with the same purpose in mind; only someone else had beat him to it. The idiot pointed his gun at Jack, told him to keep staring if he wanted to get his dumb ass capped, and that was all it took: two shots, one dead, and now they wanted to call him a hero, give him a ticker-tape parade and the key to the city, everyone too caught up in the moment to ask why someone else had showed up with a loaded gun.
He thought again about that morning and the one thing that still haunted him—had haunted him all his life, in fact. Once again, he’d been a day late and a dollar short.
Excellent and pointed, both of yours.
A different take (and a Nine):
Untitled
“Would you be wanting the ashes?” he asked. He held the cumbersome bag.
“You must be kidding,” I said, terse and sparking.
Ashes. Right, I could keep them on the Mexican tile floor, where his bones had soaked up cool relief. Or on my knee, instead of his heavy, curled paw. I could keep a sober container by my side of the bed where he’d settled with a groan, then twitched his rough feet, hot in the night, dreaming of running through clear puddles.
“No, I don’t want the ashes,” I said to the vet and the words, snatched by a winter wind, hovered, sleety, in the air.
Stephen, love how you return to your roots on this one.
Jane, I have two boxes of ashes I don't know what to do with. I relate. Some beautiful. poignant images in this one.
Another great prompt. The writings prove that out. I enjoyed each one, cliche and all. Here's my go at it.
Grimace in the Ear
by
Michael J. Killips
Brian started crying, yet another victim of Nathan’s. Distracted from the game, Coach Dave saw Brian slumped on the ground holding his ankle, Nathan standing over Brian with his hands in the air and his face showing nothing but angelic innocence.
Circling past Brian, Coach stepped in front of Nathan, gently putting his right arm on Nathan’s shoulder and curled his large hands around the back of Nathan’s neck. Nathan felt cornered but as he tried to move away Coach’s arm pressed down hard and his hand constricted against Nathan’s neck.
Pushing Nathan’s head down slightly forcing acceptance of dominance, Coach moved his head towards Nathan’s ear and with a gravelly sound in the center of his voice said, “I want you to stop picking on your teammates because if you don’t I’ll be taking great pleasure in rolling you into a ball and kicking your sorry round little ass up and down this field until the moon rises.”
Coach released Nathan just enough so they were face to face and Nathan could see Coach’s friendly smile turn into a cold, hard, grimace; Nathan suddenly thought about his bladder.
Dropping his death grip, Coach strode over to his assistant saying calmly, “I’ve been waiting all season to be mean to that little prick and I think I really enjoyed that.”
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