(Photo: Paul Zoetemeijer on Unsplash)
They were drawn in, unsuspecting,
By tales of glory finally
Being restored,
From a manufactured time of
Old.
Then kept in even when doubting
To go on,
Stuck, as it were, in
The eye of a hate filled
Maelstrom.
Spun, they were,
In webs of lies.
To leave they would
Need to give up
Pretended lives.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Maelstrom in 56 words
(Photo: Intricate Explorer on Unsplash)
His chest pumped high
In disrespect
He struts
And spouts,
Magniloquent.
Follow his every word
They must,
Appease or face
Scathing wrath.
Bombastic peacock
Heading
Cult.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Magniloquent in 26 words
It wasn’t the hunger. Or the cold. Or the worry that their bruises won’t have time to heal before another layer made lace of the colors on their skin, to serve a lesson in horror and morals for their kin.
It was, more than anything, the despair.
The utter loneliness within.
The feeling that there will never be another way to be. Another way to live. Another place to be.
For the Commune was The Law, and The Law was The Faith, and The Faith was the whip and the rope and the cellar’s dirt floor.
The Law was everything.
Until.
That day when someone – who some later said was of the lost who were forbidden to be let back in – breached the fences. Ignored the “No Entry” sign circling the fields. Climbed through the grasses.
With a lens. And later, with the law.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
(Photo: CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash)
So he shouts
At the wind
For blowing
To where he did not
Want it,
And demands
Others swear
There’s no wind
Because he’s so
Quixotic.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Quixotic in 26 words
He is known for his insatiable
Need
For drama.
Histrionics
Are his drug.
He requires frequent dosing
Of idolizing
Chants by crowds.
He does not believe in
Science
Or in reason
Or in truth,
Which to him detract from
The ardent fervor
He craves as complete
Fealty
Proof.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Histrionics in 48 words
He wanted to take the glasses off but it was not allowed.
The penalty was devastatingly permanent.
True Focus was reserved for a selected few. A privilege. Stealing it would result in losing all sight. Both eyes.
He blinked and tried to calm the nausea that came with the distorting lenses. He never got used to the dizziness. Or the headache.
He didn’t think they were meant to.
“Loyalty above clarity; Fealty, not facts.”
It was chanted. It was law.
A disoriented population was the goal.
He grieved for the realities that had been ignored when freedom still had hope.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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