#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.

Three Line Tales: Soccer for 3-Year-Olds #amwriting #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 words for hosting #3LimeTales

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Credit: Christian Widell via UnSplash

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The gitter of the morning sun touches the dew, the liquid grass blades absorb it, deprived of water, sucking it back like tequila shots. The little ones arrive, talking loudly and shrieking; there are tears, there are runny noses, and there are giggles of happiness. The three-year-olds line up and parents help them do their tasks; Practicing kicking the ball into the net, running here and there, being the goalie, and following each other closely, a pack of pigeons squawking; all is well until Jordy pushes Chris and the toddlers aren’t afraid, piling on top of each other with delighted screams. 

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Sunday Photo Fiction: An Evil Chalice #amwriting #fiction #flashfiction 


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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A Mixed Bag

—–

Timo and Erica had been stranded in the desert when their small plane crashed near Cairo. Sunburnt, exhausted, and thirsty, they were shocked to see an Oasis. 

“An Oasis Timo, we’re saved. There’s water and even a chalice to drink from,” Erica yelled. 

“You’re seeing things Erica, there’s no water and no chalice.” 

Really look, it’s only a few steps away — we’re here,” Erica said rushing forward to drink from a beautiful pale blue spring; however, whenever she tried to cup the spring water with her hands, it slide away. 

“It won’t let me drink and I’m half-dead,” she cried. 

Timo rubbed his eyes, finally believing the blue spring underneath a palm tree existed. A chalice made with a human skull sat in the middle of a stone alter as well. It gave him a feeling of dread. 

“Erica, to drink the water you need the chalice but don’t do it. There’s something terrifying and evil about this cup.” 

She turned to Timo, giving him a dark stare, “I’ll drink from the chalice if I want.” Erica strode to the alter, bowed mockingly and lifted the chalice to kiss the skull on the mouth.

Timo grimaced as she scooped it into the water and drank. It was an Indiana Jones’ movie come to life as Erica’s life force was sucked from her body which disintegrated until she was dust. 

He decide to try drinking from the spring without the chalice. Timo drank all the water he could then sat down beneath the large palm tree in the shade. He wondered why cupping his hands worked for him and not for poor Erica as he drifted asleep.

When he awoke, Timo heard the blessed noise of rescuers in the distance and hollered for help. To his amazement the Oasis had disappeared along with the chalice. 

He contemplated what he should say happened to Erica as no one would believe the truth. 

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Saving The Puppy


Thank you to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW. Let her know what an amazing job she’s doing 🙂


Horse and Car
Phylor2014

Sweet Caroline waited for her rider, Joy (who was attending a party at the neighbor’s ranch) when Caroline heard a terrified yap from beside her. It was a heat-sick puppy trapped in a car.

Caroline had heard Joy saying certain people were ignorant, believing it was fine to leave a pet in the car when the temperature was boiling inside.

The puppy whimpered and with all her might, Caroline kicked a window out of the car with her hoof.

Joy ran when she heard the car window shatter and Caroline whiny. She gasped, observing the languishing puppy inside. 

Taking both Caroline and the puppy just outside the party tents, Joy gave the thirsty puppy bottled water and scraps of meat from the buffet.

A furious couple Joy recognized, approached her wanting their puppy back, but Joy refused. Instead, she dialled the local RCMP and reported the couple, for leaving their dog in a hot car.

Sweet Caroline nuzzled her puppy friend as the puppy slept on Joy’s shoulder.


©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Shadorma – “Worry Not” #wordhighjuly #introtopoetry


The prompt for Poetry 101 is water. I’m doing a Shadorma with 3, 5, 3, 3, 7, 5 syllables. It is Day 2: July 2 for Word High July.

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http://www.picturequotes.com

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A glass of, 

Water poured is clear, 

We drink it.

Leave water, 

Half-way in the glass, half-full?

Half-empty?

—–

You never, 

Replied, never said why?

My vantage, 

Of water, 

Mattered to you so much; you’re mad.

Pessimist.

—–

A fight breaks, 

It’s only water and, 

I can pour, 

It back in, 

The sink, an empty glass.

Your glare smarts.

—–

Argument, 

Just water hon; not, 

As if we, 

Are without

It; as in some countries, 

They are parched.

—-

Where’s your thought, 

When you speak angrily,

It’s me here.

And I drink, 

Entire glass, leaving drop not.

I’m quenched.

—-

Yet thirsty, 

For you to,

Have self-control and, 

Not be mad, 

Offended, 

By my optimism.

I’m realist.

—–

I’m telling, 

You the truth, relax.

Half-full or —

Half -empty, 

It’s all in the timing of —

Life lived.

——

Timpi, calm,

Whatever storms rise, 

We’ll overcome, 

Control thoughts, 

Don’t worry of unlikely,

Scenario.

—–

Let the wind, 

Summer breeze and heat, 

Relax your,

Tense soul and —

Think of each day as it comes, 

Be tranquil.

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.