Fiction: “Nomadic Heart” #amwritingfiction


Credit: Adrian Dascal via Unsplash


Linnea ambles with grace down the cobbled streets, backpack slung. The afternoon sunlight reflects in wedges off sculptured buildings, and pedestrians on motorized ‘wheelies’ whiz past her.

She’s chosen ‘berry pink’ hair for today, hidden beneath her helmet. The remote bracelet on her hand flickers amber, and images of the city (places Linnea frequents) appear in front her; she’s the only one who can see them.

She is anxious to find her next home. The ‘all-seeing eye,’ (the same one on her leather jacket) flashes as she shoves her Stans (converse runners) into her ‘wheelie,’ speeding towards her new apartment in seconds. Inside she hoists the ultra-light vehicle over her shoulder before scanning her hand to enter the eclectic living space.

Linnea runs up the hallway stairs and tosses her leather jacket on the couch; her wheelie rests nearby. Lounging on the couch Linnea flicks through vivid images of flowers on a large screen while eating Thai left overs from the fridge.

She chooses images to tattoo on her skin in one painless scan. Most will fade in a week, but there are three which never disappear. They’re the only piece of home she always has with her.

Her eyes spot her jacket and the ‘all seeing-eye’ warning her; it flickers white and Linnea knows that she can’t remain. The beeps of the real tenant’s handprint scanning quickens her pulse; she needs to find a new hideaway. A silver-haired man steps in through the front door and she throws on her gear; Linnea slips out before he notices. Her Stans are in place on her ‘wheelie’ again as she takes off down the street.

Linnea’s life was a series of hopping from place to place. She swore as the wheelie zoomed faster. They called this the future, but the future resembled the past in too many ways. For some people it didn’t matter, they never had a home, a place ‘just’ theirs. For some people their nomadic heart forever wandered and always would; home was an illusion.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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Poem: Free Verse – “Forever Hope” #amwritingpoetry #mandibelle16 #mandibellesthoughts


Hey all! It’s been a long time, and I’m sorry to have been away so long. I’ve spent the last month recovering in hospital from a severe depressive episode. There’s still a ways to go to improve my stamina, but the hardest part is done. At least my diagnosis is known forsure — I suffer from Clinical Depression where I can become so depressed I have a psychotic episode. But, with new medication and the help of modern ECT (which I highly recommend), I’m looking forward to continuing through life and improving my little apartment and finding another part-time job. For now I’m at my parents working on healing a little still. Here is a poem I started a month ago, before the episode got bad, finished today.


Credit: Shutterstock


The writer takes a pause,

The world it spun, titled without cause.

Forgotten nights and fierce dramas played;

Yet, I stay; I pause — only for a breathe of time.

A moment to confess;

Assured that darkness can never win the day.

Although the sun is abeam and we drag our paint brushes through clean–

It’s a stronger light than you could imagine.

Eternal, brilliant, fluorescent, suffering a just fierce burst;

— Than the glow of morning wins adream.

So, that in the black pitch of fright we see;

Darkness is short, never forever.

Forever is but a moment if you realize —

Dim dankness will cease, and the night’s short minutes are minuscule gleaming beams of white.

They block out the pitch of fright;

Time that pauses pain, such gusts of cruelty cannot prevail;

Thus, we continue on —

And in life we’ve hope, despite death shrouds.

Those pollutant clouds that choke — only sweet clean air has us afloat.

Here shrill cobalt birdies fly and never die;

No lost trips in wild night, no wild wild frights or shadow‘s clawing.

Nothing but our vivid faith for tomorrow’s war won;

And in reality I find(perhaps), a better life aglow.

I hold on for brilliant light beyond the dusk, and harrowed breadth of night.

This is no nightmare or sordid dream, so hang on —

A better life bends t’ward us; And courage is a radiant resplendent breath awake.

The creators Mercy and passion still live —

If only we forget not to hope.

For a better life, for better seconds to each other give;

Forgive and hang-on-tight to the bold flashes of a sunny, light blue Friday dawn.

The battle has faded; now forever altered we move on.

Soldiers dragging our feet as swishes of paint,

Each step t’ward life’s resilience.


©️Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved (2019).

Three Line Tales: Fiction — “The Peace at the End of the Road” #amwritingfiction #3LineTales.


Thank you to Sonya of #3LineTales.


Credit: Dave Herring via Unsplash.


Autumn is cool here and they’re places I amble where certain roads are brilliant possibilities; others dull dead ends. This September, the warm breeze of an Indian summer blows through me, and in the sunshine afternoon a rainbow brick path leads to a periwinkle church. I sit on a back pew, hands laced in prayer as peace pervades me for mere moments; then, my heart unclenches and I inhale bliss.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Photo Challenge: Fiction — “Sea Dragon” #amwritingfiction #flashfiction


Thanks to NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Photo Challenge.


Credit: sound-dream tumblr.


The freeway lights gleamed in the darkness, blending with celestial blurs of stars. Giselle drove home, bit by bit across the bridge. The air was tinged with sea salt, while impatient drivers honked their horns. Giselle was amazed that each night people never tired of the cacophony. A ship horn blew across the sky and she edged her car forward.

Then, a harrowed screech from the bridge had her and other drivers screaming. In another second, the bridge swayed and cars slid towards each other. Giselle bit her lip as a roar thundered and the bridge swayed.

A massive yellow eye blinked, and the ancients lizard’s tongue flicked against reptilian lips. Giselle lay her hand against her beating heart; it was only the local sea dragon. He’d swum under the bridge and his ridged form had scraped the bottom. Giselle stepped out of the car as did many others, to watch the monster swim on into the sea amidst the starry light.

She noted others stepped out of their scraped and battered cars. It wasn’t uncommon for the dragon to hit the bridge, it was built to handle his force. No one had more than minor injuries; the police and national guard kept him tranquilized.

Now and then, the dosage was too much and the dragon was woozy as he hunted small creatures in the sea. Giselle stepped into her vehicle, and the traffic moved again, quicker this time. A part of Giselle ached for the dragon, too prehistoric ( perhaps, medieval) for the modern world; the only sea dragon left.

A.M. Eifert


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 24/ Poem — Free Verse — “Bird Dreams” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 24: my own prompt again.


Credit: Coral Birds Pinterest


There was a bird coral flushed, torn in the Red Sea waves,

And she floated in the healing, until her wings were drenched in mineral salts.

She preened on a rock, wings coated in salt-dust;

But, one day a storm raged and she was drenched in the mud.

The healing earth, and brokenness beneath meant nothing.

Rain washed, and she spread her plush coral feathers — lunged for the sky;

The salt and mud weighed, not much had fallen-smooth away.

But, she flew anyways — some birds fly despite;

They rise, even if you hold them down;

If you clip their wings, their feathers still grow rapid.

If you hear not a squawk, don’t be surprised if you do — she talks, no moment is right, but there’s reasons beneath silence.

It takes time to soar weighted by sludge, to balance weights on your wings;

But she’s flying and she’s okay, she might send a squawk your way —

Depends if you’re a bird person, or weighted to cement delusions.

She might squawk, or she might fly onto the tangerine sunset,

Where the saltless waters are clean, and her wingspan for a moment’s graceful.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 24: Poem – Sevenling – “Choosing Right” #amwritingpoetry


For #NaPoWriMo Day 24 using the Sevenling form again.


The elements of the Sevenling are:
1. a heptastich, a poem in 7 lines made up of 2 tercets followed by a single line. metered at the discretion of the poet.
2. unrhymed.
3. composed with 3 complimentary images in the first tercet and 3 parallel images in the second tercet. The end line is a juxtaposed summary of the 2 parallels, a sort of “punchline”.
4. the poem should be titled “Sevenling: (first few words of poem).


Credit: DeviantArt

Cold tentacles, the octopus‘, beady eyes blink;

Forgiveness, understanding maimed, vermilion sky’s bruised.

Deep purple chills, I — sea witch, clamber in grim slime.

Wind screeches, gusts as glass spikes; no harm do I wish.

Confession –I stole her voice, her sweet tune’s mute.

At moments, we’re all witches, change calms the violent storms.

There’s power overcoming spite, choosing right.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 23: Poem — Free Verse — “Duck-Billed Platypus Thief” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 23 the prompt is:


“Taking a cue from Bishop, I’d like to challenge you today to write a poem about an animal. If you’d like to take a look at some other poems for inspiration, you might like James Dickey’s “The Dusk of Horses,” or Tennyson’s “The Eagle.””


Credit: http://www.wearessecondunion.com

Curious duckbilled thief, I caught you stealing time,

You peeped, squealed, rolled into corners where no one could peep.

Your black-eyes are wide, fluffy innocence peers back.

And your tiny lashes flick, as you hide within fur,

The jingle of coins jolts you, they roll ’round your tummy.

A Crown falls to the floor, you’re off running — to save what’s left of your treasure.

You’re sure no one will catch you– this time you’ve got us beat.

The royal jewels are in your fur-folds somewhere,

You’re a petty pad-foot, harmless, too snuggly for words;

You’re an armful of trickster; you hate being caught.

When I demand my wallet, my cash, and watch,

You cock your coal-dark head,

Perhaps, you didn’t know they were there at all? (You imply).

Tucked under belly rolls, in corners, and squishy edges,

I sigh, take back my treasure, hold out my hand, you chirp —

Duck billed platypus, creature of mole (some other beasts I imagine too).

Your thieveries a whimsy, but no ones fooled,

All you love is gold, silver if you must . . .

You’ll catch it in a sec, a poof of magic dust.

Your duckbilled lips smile, as you scamper down the stairs,

Yet, the things you hold dear, are the most worthless wares.

You need a lady friend,

For her thievery includes not just gold,

But, your platypus heart too!


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – Perpetual Hunger #amwritingfiction #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 300 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: Sam Lloyd via Unsplash


Lilly was 18-years old and despite turning a year older, hated she wasn’t able to leave their house on the lake for a city university, not the prep-college in town; Lilly’s family had for generations owned a winery near her current university in Napa. After a dull birthday party she swung to-and-fro on her treasured porch swing, and scowled at the lake — her charcoaled eyes brimming tears; Lilly wondered how much criticism she’d have to endure until she could attend any university she desired in Fall. She had achieved the SAT grades for a scholarship far from the winery and her Aunt’s persistent nagging and constant mention of Lilly’s waistline; she longed for the days could attend school far north in Canada without perpetual hunger.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo Day 4/ Saturday Mix: “Koala Dance” #amwritingpoetry #SaturdayMix


For OctPoWriMo Day 4 the Prompt is strange animals. Also, combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Saturday Mix Prompt using a Jeffrey’s Sonnet.


According to Shadowpoetry.com, ” A Jeffreys Sonnet has 8 syllables per line. And includes 2 sestets with a cross rhymed couplet (the cross rhyme is in the 2nd to 4th syllable in each of the two lines of the couplet). Also there is a cross rhyme in the first line of the 2nd sestet (between the 2nd to 4th syllable), tying the 1st sestet to the 2nd. So the rhyme scheme would be: aabccb, (b)ddeffe, (e)g (g)e. The letters in ( ) are the cross rhymes.


Credit: Google

Your eyes they glare, mud pupils flared;

Furry ears edged with white-grey hair.

What do you see with such dauntless —

Eyes peering, shifting; are we gone?

Your sleek body quivers; pondering —

Us, odd strangers — hairless, jaunty.

Are we to be feared as we taunt?

Clueless kids tapping glass, so brash.

Mama Koala bear, have you sass?

Energy to climb from your branch?

For we can’t hear your tired moans,

Your yearning for forest’s of Home.

Would you leap, run, given the chance?

Or, would you clutch your tree in stance?

Hugging your young, a mother’s dance.

Yet, in paces your claws advance;

Higher than we below would chance.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo 2018 Day 1/ Sunday Writing Prompt/ #PhotoChallenge: Poem – “Death’s Twilight” #amwritingpoetry


For OctPoWriMo Day 1 the theme is surrender. I’m combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt on the poem, “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. Also, using a photo prompt from NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.


Credit: Natalia Ruka

She rises, you think she’d shrink,

Lose her footing with knobby bones, bloody footprints;

But, she’s a miracle and survives despite —

The annihilation of her heart.

No surrender, no train cars full of the sick and dying;

No camps of death will kill her.

She won’t surrender, she’ll paint you a dream,

A masterpiece of despair and scribbled features.

A portrait or less, no seashell rocking shut;

She rasps, vapours of her lost innocence.

Herr who?

With battered purple sockets.

Herr who?

A dream or nightmare trawling.

I have no dreams of innocence, only a suffering spitefulness for your hate.

Words that shattered the cracked mirror,

Seventy times seven bad luck.

Herr who?

Miss Plath, your words are riddled traps.

Herr who?

She fakes death, blood and bone snapped;

Flesh from hands shredded.

Your terror camps and eyes of sunken sin,

Can’t make her alive, though she’s not yet, dead.

Be on guard for those caught in-between;

Those who aren’t afraid as the breath in their lungs rattles.

Beware of those who see death and leave life;

The exact meeting of one leaving the elevator, while the other travels home.

Beware of hair as hellfire, she the angel of death;

No surrender, for none was given her.

Beware her yawning grin,

And hollow eyes as she devours men like air;

Destiny with her twisted wings,

Her opalescent fluttering, a sheen that hides the bitter.

Her charcoal hands twitching as they sketch the twilight of death.


“Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

*****

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.