Photo Challenge/Saturday Mix: “We’re Done” #amwritingpoetry


Thanks to NELNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Photo Challenge and Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday mix on the theme of onomatopoeia and the three words rustle, thud, and hoot.


Credit: Google

Our balance as love-birds is precarious. We’re alike yet, so different. Holding our Adho Mukha Vrksasana‘ handstands, eyes closed; our breath mingling. It’s a habit of ours, mutual meditation of bodies and minds. We breathe deep, yet struggle to hold our pose.

A rushing sensation floods my brain. My blood pumps downward and dizziness threatens.

You groan. “Hold it five more minutes.”

I say nothing. You’re too close, I need distance. I’m sick of this arrangement. You take flight far from me; there’s never any communication, until you’re home. It’s as if I don’t exist for you until there’s no one else.

My muscles relax and I flex my feet, rolling my body through my spine, then my hips, until I’m in table top, and then, sitting cross legged. You’ve noticed nothing. Do you ever? I shove your side. Your spindle-legs flail in the air; you can’t right yourself. Thud!

“What the hell.” You glare and examine the scratches on your body.

I shrug. “Too much. I can’t keep this up.”

“Huh?”

“Everything.” My lungs ache; I feel caged. I want to scream.

“What’s wrong with you?” You cock your head and study me, hands on your knees. Your beady eyes send nervous chills.

“Her, all the hers. Cassandras and Stephanies. Kassies and Ashleys.”

“You’re the only Claire.”

I stand. The sun’s hot on my arms as I yank on yoga pants. Crisp spring leaves rustle above me in the river valley along with the some hooting bird. The breeze quickens, and I shiver, stretching high into mountain pose.

I peer at him, as he considers me. “I think I’m tired of peacocks like you. I don’t need your strutting or the women. The never knowing where you are, or if you care.”

You frown, run your hands through your hair, while your toes dig into the grass. “What are you talking about?”

“I need to concentrate on other things, not where or who you’re leaving here for next; the never knowing if you’ll return.” I turn, shoving my feet into pink Tom’s. My breath eases. I’m relieved that I said it, finally.

“Claire, stay. Please.” You twist your hippy-beard and your beady eyes beg.

I close mine and sigh. ” I can’t; no more.” You reach for your water bottle, gulp it before slamming it against a tree. Twigs crack, the bottle dents.

You swear, but don’t follow me as I hike back to the car. When I no longer see you, my body quivers, wracked with sobs. With each step I rid myself of your poison.

A few minutes later I rub my eyes with my hoodie sleeve. I don’t care that they’re pink and swollen.

That’s when it hits me –the silence of no drama, no worry weighing my entire being down as stones. I let the silence permeate me; a peace I haven’t experienced in years crashes over me. We’re done. My lips turn upwards and I smile. I haven’t done that in years either.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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#NovemberNotes Day 27/ Three Line Tales: Fiction – “Memories Hiding Cannot be Seeked” #amwriting #3LineTales


For November Notes Day 27 the Prompt song is “Hide and Seek” by Fatai but I’m using the song of the same title by the group Imagone Heap. I’m combining the song prompt with #3LineTales from Sonya of Only 100 Words for January 4, 2018.


Credit: Gemma Evans via Unsplash


“Hide and Seek” by Imagone Heap


Josse’s murmuring nonsense in his sleep except for the number, “850, 850 . . . ;” then, waking up he looks at me rasping, where are we and what the hell is going on — I rub my eyes and think this can’t be happening, can it?

I try to appear sympathetic as I do every time Josse wakes up asking, but before I can speak he yells, “Hide and seek, all these games, trains and sewing machines — life has gone still, everything is so still, why, Claire?”

Sighing, I wish I could explain how much things have altered since his accident, but each day I do he forgets and I’m listless from losing him repeatedly, from reassuring him that we’ve been safe for the past twenty-five-years; but still Josse cries, “850, 850. . . you’re mid-sweet words, you don’t care a bit, what happens to us — we’re in such danger, why do you speak without feeling, don’t you love me, Claire?”


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.