it’s not pretty like
the poems written about it,
it is sad and lonely
and loves solitude.
It feeds on silence and
screams the loudest.
It comes at dusk and doesn’t
depart at dawn-
it’s a sticker.
In tunes- entrancing,
Into its clutches;
It doesn’t let go,
Makes the cracked, feel
Broken; and the broken,
Feel damaged, and the damaged
It’s a downward spiral.
It’s not like the switch
on a wall
To be turned,
Off at choice.
A journey it is,
With more bumps than
It is called depression,
Yes- it is real.
The above picture is courtesy of Bbc.co.uk
They told me my colour,
Was like dirt on the ground,
To be stamped on, and trod on-
Had no dignity on the land.
But my mother told me,
It was the colour of the land,
This dull brown, they tramp on,
From it, We will rise.
They told me to back off,
Books weren’t for my kind,
It was picking time in lane’s hill,
Cotton’s all that’s worth my time.
My mother laughed and countered,
Without me there’d be no kind,
For books can’t feed their stomach,
They’d always need my kind.
They said I had no history,
My past was a hole in time,
An arrow which hit its target,
We were a lost- lost tribe.
My mother shook with fury,
At the claim we had no roots;
History’s filled with us she raged,
Our tears, our blood, our joys.
From then, I hugged the library
Time for Cotton, time for books;
When they claim I have no history,
I write out to them of our roots.
The above image is courtesy of All black everything. Tumblr
Doors were slammed, curtains drawn, babies were nestled to their mother’s bosoms. Mothers looked to their husbands for comforts whilst cradling their kids, and everyone held their breaths as the sound of tires, grazing the tarred ground filled the silence.
The motorcycle gang had arrived.
Their shouts could be heard from a distance as they ravaged the now empty street. But that day was different. Rather than peruse the streets and return to wherever they came from, the gang got down from their bikes- A first.
Another first was that one spoke; I never heard a more angry voice than that, sent chills down my spine.
“They were sick and tired of seeing the corpses of female babies. The infanticide was enough, and the parents of the next girl they see would wish they never saw the face of earth.”
And just as they came, they were gone. I was seven then and didn’t fully understand, but sure enough, there was a lot more girl naming ceremonies and pink baby showers from then on.
word count: 174. This story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. Each week we are provided with a picture and are to write a 75-175 story on it. Thank you @Sunayana for providing us with this week’s picture.
I know I speak without filter sometimes, a perk of mine, and as I presume, many others as well. Needless to say, somethings shouldn’t require filter to not be said, common sense should suffice.
If you’ve ever gone through a weight change, either weight loss or weight gain, for whatever reason, then you’ve probably also been a victim of what I’m about to say.
It is so NOT COOL to greet anyone with the statement- you have lost/ gained weight. That is not a greeting; whatever happened to good morning, hi, or even hello. And when you do say it unintentionally (I’m giving the benefit of doubt here), please don’t utter those words as if you’re saying snort or something disgusting.
That being said, now to the main reason I am writing this post. To anyone who knows anyone who is going through a weight change, please (talking from experience here), one of the worst things you can say to them is- “you looked more beautiful before you lost/gained weight“. Because firstly, it is none of your business and secondly, it is none of your business.
You do not get to decide when a person does or does not look beautiful. You have no idea the reason behind the weight change or the effort put towards it. And also because by saying that, you’re endorsing the “ridiculousness” that beauty is measured in scales which is absurd in itself.
I hope this doesn’t sound as one of those angst rant but rather something tangible. What are some of the worst things you’ve been told or heard, with regards to weight change?
The above image is courtesy of Cranky fat feminist.
Mike rarely dwelt in self-pity but that day was an exception. He stared at the sorry looking state of the car in front of him, blaming the kindness of his heart for ever offering to fix it in the first place.
“Not too bad eh,” a voice roused him from his shock.
Mike took a good look at the, em, “car”. It looked like something dragged out of a fast and furious wreckage and he could have sworn the car was sprouting weeds.
“Nothing a little Mike magic can’t fix,” he smiled back, getting a grip on himself, under the eager and kind eyes of the car owner.
“Here goes nothing,” Mike murmured and began. It took a few days but he did it, feeling a sense of accomplishment. The car owner was so overjoyed with the end result, the words that dropped out of his mouth were, “I cannot wait to see what you’ld do on the other two.”
Mike laughed nervously, hoping the car owner was only joking.
Word count: 171. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge hosted by priceless Joy. Thank you very much Mike Vore for providing us with this week’s photo.
Somedays, words flow from the tip of my fingers, sprouting springs whose waters seem to last forever. somedays, the pool dries up, leaving no trace behind ever, of the presence of water. And I wonder, am I writer?
Somedays, tears form lumps in my throat, stuck, at the tentacle of falling out, transforming into anger on pages. Somedays, they descend in torrential downpour forming cavities upon my face and dampening blank pages. And I stare at the glistening droplets, am I a writer?
Somedays, memories come knocking on the door of present. I hold the door open, only slightly, letting it walk in a sequential pattern, straight through the ink across paper. Somedays, they come knocking down my door, and my hands hang helpless to their force. They form muddles around my mind, and I wonder, can I be a writer?
Somedays I edit, most days I erase, on occasion I delete the words I had previously placed. Somedays it takes everything within to choose to write, somedays writing chooses me, like I’ve been doing it all my life- it seems. And I wonder, what It takes to stake a claim on being a writer?
The above image is courtesy of The odyssey online.com
For the first writer’s quote of February, I chose an author whose poems I only recently became familiar with recently- Ella wheeler Wilcox. There, I gave out the author’s name already so no worries. There is no quiz this week. The title of the poem is Solitude.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
The verses of the poem were culled from Poetry foundation and the above image quote is courtesy of Quotesfancy.com
“Jeremy Abdul-Kareem Green!” A voice roared from across the parking lot, “you will not kill me before my time.”
The recipient of the intended threat, a young boy dressed in accordance with the impending storm expected to downpour any moment, stopped in his tracks. Jeremy had heard that same statement everyday of his life, he’d mastered a meek appearance with downcast eyes and pouted lips in response.
His mother sighed, then asked in a much lower voice, “what did you do this time?“
He had made paper boats and sent them down the toilet.
“And they sent you home for that?” She asked quizzically. Turns out, they weren’t just “a few” boats, which resulted in the clogging of the school drain.
Jeremy’s mother paused for a moment, then said, “9 days…The longest you’ve gone without getting into trouble so far,” Jeremy smiled.
“I wish you’d made it to ten, but, well it is progress”.
The teacher looking out to see if Jeremy’s mother had arrived was astounded to find the duo hugging.
word count: 173. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring writers photo prompt challenge where each week we are provided a picture to write a 75-175 word story on. Thank you very much @Jessica Haines for this week’s photo.
For the girl, who screamed No
Till her voice was hoarse-
Pleading- for them to stop.
And her blood stained clothes,
Weren’t evidence enough;
And the length,
Of her skirt-
Was brought into question.
For the girl turned down,
By those who swore to protect her-
Cause good girls,
At such time of the night.
For the girl whose strength was burnt,
With one statement to the ground;
Did you resist,
I said No.
Well, is that all you said, No?
For the girl who built her world,
From the rubbles of the past,
Born from anger,
Fuelled with pain,
Watered with hope in order to say-
To the girl, who screams No,
And is told, It isn’t enough.
No means No,
It is enough.
In response to the daily prompt- Resist
The above image is courtesy of Sos safety magazine