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Malaise: Un-Sonnet

My work stinks.

It reeks, actually, of failure intermingled with

putrid pretensions of deeper knowledge.

It stenches of vain attempts to write

with the  Walcotts, the Morrises, the Brathwiates,

and rots in  a hole that is called

“the block.”

I wait, like the corbeaux for the line

that  quivers slowly then drops on a

sandy page. I feed, like the

maggot on what is beyond

redemption, nourished,

to produce nothing

myself.

© Debra Providence 2013

St. Vincent,

sometimes,

is

an island

cut by

fire

capped with

mountains

draped by

mists

that

blanket

the sky,

filling

my heart

pulling

me in

to dash

my

bones

against

its rocks.

© Debra Providence 2013

 

Earth

shudders

 winds

rise

rivers

swell

then

burst.

 

Silence

 

Shattered:

a tiny

voice

screams

howls

whimpers

murmurs,

hush.

 

A girl

 

Tears

 

Cruel

insertion

harsh

initiation

 

The shape of things to come.

 

(a girl!)

 

(pity)

 

Writhing

howling

gruesome

thing ,

unloved

in truest form,

left

cold and whimpering

at the

bottom

of  the steps

of this house.

 # I wrote this a while ago as a means of introducing the Unwoman, a central figure in a collection of poems that I am patiently putting together. It may well need revision but I am giving it a little air.

Metric on my Mind

It’s been a while, I know.  Life is currently challenging my time management skills. There are so many things that I want to do, that I need to do, that spin around me, like a vortex. There are so many things vying for my attention and time, but there little time or attention to be given. Sometimes I feel energized by the idea that I have assigned myself several projects, personal interest projects that will bring satisfaction once I have completed them. They are like plants, newly bought seedlings that require a great care for their early stages. You start caring for them early on. Then you lapse, and then you forget. Your reminder comes when you notice your seedlings are drooping and yellowing in parched soil. You are shocked at how much you have neglected your own projects.

This blog fits the category of neglected things. I started it as a means of sharing thoughts on one of my passions and while the passion is still there, the time is not. I have been writing in private. I’ve written things I am keeping close to my heart – things that I am not yet ready to share and I am not sure if I will ever share. And I have been writing in other ways too.

I hope to be active this year, which is already in its third month. I am reading new works from Nalo Hopkinson, Karen Lorde and Nnedi Okorafor. I’ve also been reading works from KurtVonnegut, James Tiptree Jr. and Joanna Russ. These works are re-energizing my imagination and that is a good thing. I will commit to the watering this green space and with my thoughts on my love for the written word, especially when it comes from else-worlds. And every now and then I will glance at my thumb to ensure that it is not turning into an odd shade of green.

On Monday
My sister was
slaughtered
and all the people
watched.
Grief flowed
like a thick grey
soul-stealing fog
through every voice
that stopped to tell.

I stepped off a bus
and hesitated,
then walked to
buy my bread.

On Tuesday
I wrote a letter
and reported to Central,
then completed paperwork
for a Smith and Wesson.

Tomorrow I will
call all my girl-friends,
it’s been a while.

© Debra Providence 2006

I’ve decided to enter the Flash Fiction contest hosted by the folks at Yearning for Wonderland. It’s the Once Upon a time Writing Contest, the theme is “unexpected fairy tails” and the word limit is 350 . I like this idea as well as anything involving fairy tails and turning fairy tails on their heads. So here’s my effort and see if you can guess which fairy tail inspired this one.

The Thing about Red-Hot Iron Boots

The thing about red-hot iron boots is not that they are heavy, nor is it the heat. It’s the fact that they are rusted iron boots glowing red. What sort of style sense went into making such a thing?  Iron boots are passé. They reek retrograde and stink overindulgence.

Just like her and the way she’s handling our tiff. She’s married off; she’s got her charming prince, although personally I’ve seen better looking and heard brighter speak, she’s got her own new kingdom to add to the one she took from me. She’s got the waterfall wedding dress, the towering cake and the piss those midgets conjured and called wine. She’s got all these things, and still bears a grudge.

My guts rise when I think about the glut at that wedding. But that is how it has always been with her. Proclivity to excess, that one. She couldn’t live with just one midget; she had to hoard seven of them, and to watch them tumble over themselves for her, like nesting dolls, like she was gold, or something. She doesn’t have a heart of gold, I’ll tell you that –all show and shine.

Over dramatizing everything, like with the apple.

I’ll admit I let the brat get to me, but I didn’t put that much belladonna on the blasted apple, just enough to knock her out a bit, to miss her passing prince. It was the least I could do for all the trouble she’d caused over the years. But she escalated it with the fainting, the pretending to be dead, and the glass coffin thing, because everyone would want to see a dead person’s face as it turns to straw. So tasteless.

Now she’s congratulating herself for picking the red-hot iron boots when she’s really not got an original bone in her body.

Dancing in these boots won’t kill me. They are heavy and they crush my ankles. They are hot and sear the flesh from my bones. No, instead it will be death by “gaudy” for me. Red-hot iron boots indeed!

(344 words)

©Debra Providence 2012

To read some really great stories from other entrants in this contest please click this  link and for more info on the rules follow the crescent moon.

Inspiration

Bunches of ideas in full bloom and competing for my attention.

I have to say that I have been thoroughly enjoying the Five Sentence Fiction weekly writing forays and somewhat surprised at the ideas that come to my mind whenever Lillie McFerrin gives the prompts. This week is no exception. The prompt is “Armor” and at first images of crystal cocoons,  armadillo girls popped into my head. Then Smaug lumbered in. He scorched the first occupants, and sat down in his usual Smaug way.  Me, like all the best burglars, watched his glorious  under belly for that one patch where the scales didn’t meet and then the idea(s) for this week’s FFS effort came to me.  At first they were all jumbled up and then they separated. Ah…the writing process. Love it!

Five Sentence Fiction: Armor or  …A Hunting We Will Go?

1# Steven Rapier

Steven Rapier sat in his usual corner in the café across from his second apartment watching, with protracted scrutiny, a young, slim dancer-type, in a denim shrug and floral maxi dress, the one with the caramel face under a mass of black curls, currently engrossed in the latest Terry McMillan effort.

Her soft cheeks complimented her heart-shaped face and there was a growing hardness in his groin as he imagined the gurgling noises her perfect throat would make while his well practiced fingers dug into it -she doesn’t look like a screamer, not like the last one.

The young lady, sensing this scrutiny, looked up; made fleeting eye-contact and blushed as her eyes returned to her reading.

That’s it, Rapier thought, that’s the “in” he was seeking; that soft spot, like the flesh on her beautiful neck, the only skin uncovered by her modest but exquisitely feminine outfit.

Deploying his brightest smile, Steven Rapier got up from his usual table and walked with cool purpose towards his next “passion project.”

#2 Deidra Blest

In a quiet, softly lit coffee house, not too removed from her usual haunts, Deidra Blest sipped her honey- lemon tea,  not really reading the book in front of her.

She sat in the dim section of the coffee house, confident that no one in this big city believed in folktales, let alone the ones that came from the Islands, and she was supremely confident that the ever-busy city people wouldn’t notice her long enough to see what she really was.

Except the chap sitting across the room from her, currently oozing thirst under his tan fedora and through his slacks.

Deidra indulged her special powers: knock them down with pheromones,  and really turn-up their heads so that what they thought they were seeing was a young demure female.

“City men sweet, oui,” she thought and then smiled as she shot the strapping Fedora Man a glance, “I will feed well tonight.”

© Debra Providence 2012

This week’s Five Sentence Fiction challenge is “Tears“.

What it’s all about: Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.

I wrote two this time after struggling to find point of entry and I decided to publish them both. One feels a little incomplete.

Tears #1…or The Dust Miner’s Daughter

Two figures stood on the look-out platform of the Company mining post near the Eagle Nebula.

The smaller, a girl, leaned into the glass and pressed her face against its coldness while the burly figure, an old dust miner, shifted his weight and cleared his throat several occasions, clearly unaccustomed to the company of teenage girls, especially the weepy sort.

Her tear stained face glowed in the blue tail-light of the comet that was slowly disappearing behind the giant columns and, though some part of her knew it wasn’t really possible, she thought that if she stared long enough at that one spot where he disappeared, she might catch a glimpse of his special red suit, or even his harness, weaving back and forth through the dust and gas.

“Er, you couldn’t really do nothin’ about that, none of us could,” the miner interrupted her concentration, “I mean, your old man, he’d get that glassy-eyed look whenever one o’ them comets was about, even before you was born he was like that.”

She nodded, grudgingly, because deep inside she knew she never stood a chance competing for her father’s love with a thing as old and as breathtakingly terrible as a comet –she just couldn’t compete at all.

Tears #2: Ms. Lenora Chase

Lenora Chase tossed her canary yellow shoulder bag on to the purple velveteen loveseat in her apartment and made a beeline for her 3rd Gen W.I.L.L. O 5 box and the bottle of Hennessey on her large dining room table.

Reaching inside the box for the nuero-interface halo, she ignored the instructions for adjusting the emo-drainage dial, turning it all the way up to 10.

It had been that type of day, what with the scene with Kevin her married boss, and the new younger, curvier, and very eager intern, the one the other girls called red lips and mega tits and the cool way Kevin dismissed the whole thing.

Ignoring the warnings on the manual against drinking and oversetting the halo, Lenora downed the contents of her glass, pressed the fully charged halo on to her temple and stretched out on her cherry pink couch.

Tomorrow, if she woke up, when they looked at her they would see her mascara intact and they would know that she is Lenora Chase and she cries for no one.

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