(Photo: Daniela Paola Alchapar on Unsplash)
They took the temperature
Of the crowd,
And realized they could
Twist skeins of truth into
Great blobs of knotted lies,
Then sell
As remedy
To now a fevered mob,
A distorted gospel
Bloated with melodramatic
Sighs.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Temperature in 37 words
(Photo: Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash)
There might not be an end to this, she thought.
It broke her heart to even think it. For she did not recognize herself in this thought. This worry.
Hardship was a familiar thing. She understood struggle. The effort of building muscle against force.
She knew suffering.
But not this. Not the deliberate harm.
Not the anfractuous path of sorrow inflicted purely for the sake of pain.
She knew not what to do with that.
Other than build a barrier around her soul to protect what was left, grieve for the need to do so.
And hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: anfractuous in 97 words
We were not supposed to be afraid of them. After all, they were the articulate. Inquisitive. Supposedly enlightened.
It was the latter which scared us. The assumption. The expectation that if they have found their way here, they are automatically allies, and not foe.
And yet, they marched with those who sought to do us harm. They justified what should not be. They claimed superiority through intellectual high-ground dressed as morality.
A repetition. It was. Of the past.
And so we learned to hide. Our names. Our true identity. Our truth.
Lest we be hunted.
In the name of peace.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo credit: © David Stewart
They built their house on the other side of the fence.
The far end of the bay.
To stay away.
Others aren’t like us, they’d say.
We’re better.
People don’t understand that
They’re nothing like us.
They built their house on the other side
Of the fence.
Taught their kids to hate
The Others
For not being
Like them.
For being
Less worthy.
Less than.
They build their house on the other side of
The fence.
The town gawked
First
Then shrugged
Then came to believe
That indeed
They were different,
Even dangerous
On the other side of
The fence.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rowena Curtin
(Photo: Jose A.Thompson on Unsplash)
Heartbreak is not a zero-sum game.
Pain is an and/and.
Destroying another is not a condition
Or proof
Or sign.
Being right or being wronged is not exclusive.
To anyone.
I will condemn
What should never
Be done.
I will not hate a People.
I will not celebrate harm.
I will not justify terrorism,
No matter the desired outcome,
Nor the hurting of children
In ‘payment’ for what someone has done.
I cannot see a space where rape or massacre,
Are ever, ever, a moral ground.
Heartbreak is not a zero-sum game.
Inflicted pain is not a battle won.
‘Collateral’ is not a term,
For anyone.
Babies aren’t worth less,
In another’s arms.
(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: Molly Blackbird on Unsplash)
They say she gets to choose to be obedient, or face the consequences.
They say she gets to choose to accept her fault, or be blamed anyway.
She gets to chew on what she’d done. Even if it was done to her. It is still somehow her doing. Her consequence. Her crime. Her punishment.
She cradles what is left of her. Tucks it away. She will not be allowed to be. Or flee. Or seek a help. Or have a voice. Or make a choice. Not really.
It does not matter what she needs. It never did.
Her body just a vehicle for others’ machinations. An incubator for others’ agendas.
The growing despair is meant to put her in her place. Clip her wings. Keep her there.
She never mattered. No matter what words they pretended to say.
She gets to choose what they say she must do. Any other path is deemed a sin. A wrong she does.
She has no right to choose. They choose for her.
And if she dares seek freedom for herself, dares to try and claim back what is left of her body, she’ll be, to them, a killer.
For Linda’s SoCS prompt of chews/choose
(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
(Photo: Stefan Spassov on Unsplash)
His claim was
Impartiality.
In practice he exhibited bias
So pervasive
As to blind him.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: impartiality in 15 words
They didn’t know when Power would return.
When they’d be allowed to leave.
Only that it would have to.
Because it had been promised. And they’d been raised to listen. And believe.
The grid was down. The streets were bare. The shelves that once were filled to the brim were naked in the lanterns’ glare.
It mattered none.
When they had faith.
Power had said, before he left, the back of the car packed with goods he “had to take to the needier elsewhere,” that they were meant to wait, “indefinitely, if need be.”
An test of faith.
Till death.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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