Pint Sized Brain Eater

When you first log into WordPress and go to your reader there are usually a couple of suggestions of things you can search for. Today I logged on and the suggestions were “zombies, toddlers, philosophy” and I thought to myself … That’s fucking gold. 

Here’s my toddler sized contribution to WordPress’s suggested searches today.

Tiny feet pitter-pattered down the hallway … That’s what they want you to believe anyway. Instead tiny feet were storming and dragging through the hall bringing the low groans and high pitched shrieks full circle. Any parent on the outside may suppose this is a normal toddler sized tantrum but no … What now railed against the locked door was no toddler.

“A pint sized brain eating machine.” Turns out everyone was right, there is no philosophy degree that will prepare you for life. Unless of course you want to one day end up on the right side of a domesticated door while the small daycare you thought would be “fun” and “educational” turns on you.

Don’t adults always catch what kids have? Why did we ever think the zombie apocalypse would start any other way?

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Dead Leg – Friday Fictioneers

Freddy lost his leg again.

The town drunk hops down the street. His backpack, wearing thin from years of service and homelessness, flops ungracefully with each wavering leap and land.

“Fred, where’s your leg?” The shopkeeper is a kind man with fluid soul in his eyes.

I imagine Freddy has soul in his eyes but through overgrown, matted hair there’s no telling.

He hops past the shopkeep, visibly shaking as he lands.

“Fred, your leg?”

Freddy freezes, we all know he’s a stubborn man. His mouth works silently, formulating words he doesn’t quite have.

“That’s Dad to you.” Freddy mumbles.

leg-up-jhcPHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Word Count: 100

Thank you as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers.

Drowned in the Desert

I don’t dance
I spent my childhood chained to the rail
I cry out for something more in this life of almost … is
What was it you whispered again?
Invisible words silently fed to the darkest spaces
Pulse through my veins
Choking life from all who touch me
Your memory is a ripple in sands of time
A fading oasis beyond sweltering lines
Forever sweeping away on the wind
Taut and teasing
A barrier into foreign lands
Unforgiving in the way it leads
The way it never gives
I don’t dance
But the memory beckons a sway or two
If only to say
I drowned in the desert
And absence of you

Word of the Day: Miss, word generator here

 

It Sounds Like Blue

The violinist swayed like smoke. The small crowd followed suit as he laid a spell over them with his dance. The beat of the small drum set vibrated through the ground just enough for the man to keep time along.

He squinted as the bow struck and slid across the strings while the violinists’ fingers moved devilishly quick. The young girl beside him slid a crumpled piece of paper into the palm of his hand.

“It sounds like blue, light not dark, like watching storm clouds or flying towards the stars with wind in your hair. It feels like love.”

music-roomPHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Word Count: 100

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields as always for wrangling in Friday Fictioneers.

Jailbait

I was never the good girl anyway

So I shoved an old rusty nail through the old mans brain

He protested a little at first

But that died down with a few hard thrusts 

I made sure to tell him

Make him beg and whimper

The judge smashed his gavel

Said it amounted to torture

Funny thing though

No one cried censure

When it was the old man

Making me beg and whimper

Lost

I am lost
In myself,
In oceans
Of your touch,
Memories
Of your lips
Slip
From my fingers
Crashing to the floor
Like plates
On the night
You didn’t make it back.
Or pictures,
Frames ready
For our wedding,
An aisle
We never made it down.
Beyond
You and I
There’s a plan.
Why else
Would we still
Get lost
In one another’s eyes.