My Name’s Annie – Friday Fictioneer’s

If you’re reading this my name’s Annie.

If you’re reading this then I guess the worst has already happened.

Maybe not. Maybe it’s 50 years from now and you’re in the woods with a metal detector and by some miracle the little clasp on this plastic bound kiddie journal hasn’t rotted off yet.

Most likely you’re mom and dad, in the middle of my room, surrounded by pink bunnies and blue gnomes … I always said I was too old for those.

If you’re reading this, my name’s Annie and I’m a good kid … I killed that boy because I had to.

dawn-in-montrealPHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers every week.

Word Count: 100

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64-66/365 Cloudy Thinking

I often wonder if I absorbed the disintegrated, evaporated particles of our fears could I float, perhaps beyond the stratosphere. Could I reflect and refract, changing reality of our existence in hues of burning oranges and somber blues. Would I brave the danger, the innate sense of impending nature, when the weight of the worlds sorrows becomes far too many and fade away under rolling thunder.

I spent around 10 hours on planes today and I’m slightly obsessed with clouds and looking out the window when flying … 

Cracks (As Beautiful As Before)

I haven’t done an actual timed stream of consciousness write in a bit. Normally I write for 10 minutes but I’m only going to do this one for 5 because it’s our last day in Lisbon and it’s my mom’s birthday!

Music: Reignwolf – shuffle on Spotify – There isn’t much on Spotify so shuffle is really the only way to listen

Word: Pin from the random word generator

It was dead silent, I couldn’t hear a thing
Probably not even a pin drop,
But I heard the years
As they snapped shut.
They melted away
Exposing old bricks
And scarred exteriors
Covered to weather the storms.
All the shiny paint,
The expensive knick knacks,
Expansive fronts I covered
Every fault and piece of distorted past
Under years of specially crafted
Dulled perfectionism
And you, I hoped,
Would still find the cracks as beautiful
As before.

Delicate

Delicate words rest between us on the tips of heavy sighs. Elaborate silences decorate our  walls. In place of pictures we hold frames of dust laden time.

It’s a line to cross but something bars us back. Like a horror house of mirrors, we’re stuck with only our reflections.

Though in crowds I’ve found ways to fall out of time. In those places, dozens of blank stammering faces, I’ve never felt more alone.