bardiphouka: (Default)
For:Purest of Prose
WC:500
no warnings





She came home to find that he had gone.
A coffee mug sits in the dish drainer
alone too but ever so clean, like pain.
She looks into his closet to find it empty

The closet that was why he had bought here
not the parks that could be seen from the windows
with their wide verdant expanse that
invited feet to walk on in their softness

but the closet with its own outlets
and the lights and the space as large
as a third world house or, as he
would say, a Toronto flat.

And now it was cleaner than the mug
as though he had even taken the dust mites
She leaves the door open and light on
in a wanton moment of recklessness

She walks soft as loneliness through the
pools of shadow that the corners of
each room whisper to her quietly
as she brushes fingers against walls

spaces where paintings had hung
she stops by the Chesterfield
and notices on the mantle in the bric a brac
that he has left the Anniversary Clock.

It is as brassy and shiny as that day had been
their first and he had not decided on taking her
out of University or the quiet coffees in Yorkville
that he decided were not feasible.

It gleams like love or lust but
the angels have stopped moving
and she understand why it is here, the clock
like their marriages,is broken.

She lifts it carefully, looking at the tear
rimmed eyes she presents to the mirror
and whispers, "enough" to the ghost
as she walks back through the rooms.

She places the clock carefully
in the middle of the closet and
closes the door, locks in, pulls
an armoire in front of it.

Years pass. She remarries a
man who knows her past
perhaps even more than she does
but who through love does not mention it

Any more than he mentions the
door he has noticed behind the armoir
"She has her reasons," he whispers
and leaves it as a part of her past.

They have children, they have dreams
wond and lost,arguments which
they work through to find
even more love waiting each time

One day they see Him. He is by a
spotless cab and it takes just a moment
to realise he is not waiting
for the driver; he is the driver.

He sees her, blames her for his poverty
Her oldest son, holding his daughter
steps between them and pulls his full
two meters into a threat that is understood.

More years pass, more life passes.
Coffee Finished. the mug
Finishes its purpose, falls
from her lifeless hand

Home from the funeral
to a house that still is full of her
from shadow to shadow
He pulls the armoire and unlocks the door

"what's that?"" asks his great grandson.
"It was nana's past" he whispers
watching angels move
in their lovely dance after

he has wound the clock with
the key and his tears.
bardiphouka: (Default)
Prompt:John Doe

In the country of the blind a one eyed man can rock and roll.
And in the country of the dead you best hand on to your soul

He turned off the song as the car drifted to a stop. He remembered this had been a store once upon a time. He looked down the street at the other empty buildings. A crow looked down on him in curiosity or anticipation, he was not sure which.

Opening the trunk he took out the old hunting rifle. He positiioned it carefully, smiling as he thought, "Why I believe I am Average"
bardiphouka: (Default)
It was because of the stepmother, but isn't it always? After a few centuries it did not matter. There was a lake and there was a moon and there was the soft sound of feathers spread on swanwing as one by one they landed.

There was always the pain of untransformation, each brother unlocked from the curse of swandom for one day and one night. And then the sister, always the last to regain her humanity by choice, so that she would also be the last to transform and could watch her brothers safely off into the wind.

She would stand,dressed only in the dawn and the wind, thrilling as she did each year at the feel of her hair moving, shifting, then changing to feather and wing and she too would wing off to join them. Her family was a private wedge. No pens were welcomed, and cobs were chased away. Although the truth is that there was seldom need. Only the most lonely, the most vulnerable swans would try, for there was something wrong with them.

So for all but one day and one night of the year there was the feel of the sun and the moon, of rain and rainbow around them as they continued their flight over the island that had been their home. Buildings were constructed and then abandoned and collapsed over time and still they flew, their wings beating a gentle tempo. The freedom of flight was always tempered with the melancholy of the two memories the curse had left them. That they were chained together. And that their freedom was an illusion to hide more chains, for they could never truly be swans.

Year upon year, decade upon decade,century on century. And slowly, ever so slowly they grew as humans. Only on the one day and night a year, for as swans they were magic and could not change. But even in the minute measures of change they reached the point, one by one, where they had reached puberty. They noticed the changes in themselves each year when they changed and in each other. Their hugs became a little longer each year, a little tighter. Brother to brother, brother to sister.

And because some things transcend curses, their libidos twined,blended as did their bodies. Not having been told what was right or what was wrong the bodies blended were generally whichever intransformed first. Until the last step of the curse. Christianity came, and one year the bells rang, the notes by magic revealing to them the final cruelty that they,the victims, would be blamed for what had actually kept them human over the centuries. And it was with that thought that they turned to dust. Except for the sister, standing in the wind one last moment and refusing to believe the bells, gradually shifting to dust with the first sound the lake had heard from any of them in all that time, the sound of laughter and freedom.
bardiphouka: (Default)
“Now let me see. It says that you were asked to leave your last position due to screaming?”

“Yes Sir”

“But isn't that supposed to be what you lot do?”

“Well ordinarily, but in this case I was the one doing the screaming.

“Whatever caused you to scream?

“Well sir, it would appear that I have developed claustrophobia.”

“And your last position was..”

“Yes sir, I was a monster in the closet”

“I see. Well we always have positions available in telemarketing.”

“Are there evil benefits?”

“Some say so”

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