March 11, 2021, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about deep wishes. Where is the deep — in the sky, the ground, or outer space? What kind of wishes reside there for whom and why?
Sitting in the middle of the field, mysterious in the moonlight, was a wishing well. It wasn’t there yesterday; of that I am sure. I mean, why would anyone build a well so far from a house? Far from looking quaint and old worldly, it looked much too menacing for my liking. I found myself drawn to it, but was my life really so bad, I needed to make a wish? There were a few things I could wish for, a proper home, a better husband, a baby… If I only had to choose one, which would it be?
Let the records show I am indissoluble. I would survive a sudden dipping in lime. Some people come up smelling of roses. I am one of them. I am anodyne, I would not like to offend anyone. Better I were pulled through a gathering backwards. Where I pull my hair, trying to wake. Ahead, I see a three-sided symbol with a yellow dot in the centre I feel my body sway with the low sound of drums. A strange triple style beat The echo rings back to my sleeping mind Where I stare at my profile in the mirror Wondering where the other of me has gone…
I never thought these words would drop onto my keyboard. I am convinced I have killed someone. I don’t remember why, or who he was. My memory, half hidden in a fog, We both held the knife. I remember he was left-handed. He lunged first, twisting away. I received a deep stab to my left thigh. He fell past me, I spun around, my knife lodged in his back. He fell on my kitchen floor. Trouble is, there has never been a dead body on my floor. The two-inch scar on my thigh tells me there should be. I have no explanation for the mark he left. A childhood accident has been suggested. Others say it could be an old memory From a past life we carry forward Once in a while, the scar itches Reminding me of something I cannot fully remember…
My mouth is dry As I descend the basement steps I hear the low snarl of an animal Trapped, hiding in the dark I feel the blast of stale warm air Corrosive at the back of my throat I had no intention of following the lure. Dangling in from of my nose I heard the stories. Aware of the ruse, the danger Like a crazy fool, I stood on the basement floor. My eyes adjusting to the dark Finding the light switch, it’s easy to see There’s no treasure buried here. No trapped animal, just me and my imagination With a tape recorder in the far corner The last sound, the door closing behind me. The bolt closed, sounding like a bullet. Followed by soft laughter. The light bulb crackled, leaving me in darkness. My fist pounding on the door. My voice echoed from the walls. Will someone come, let this fool out!
Three walked the riverbank, old friends Searching for Arundel, the lost castle Made from elfin hair, stronger than any fortress Hide to find, the legend states it moves from place to place So few have returned to tell the tale Of a castle made from hair that stands as rigid as bone From so many travellers who did not find their way home…
We didn’t want a big tree this Christmas, so when we saw this pretty fibre optic tree in the shop window, we took it home, content with our preparations.
The next time we went to town, we spotted a wonderful tree in a charity shop window. This was a small tree too, although quite different from the one we already had. Old fashioned ribbons and flowers gave it an old-world charm, as if it had come straight from a Dickens novel.
We had to buy it, even though we already had a tree.
It was decided that the Dickens tree would be in pride of place in our decorations, relegating the fibre optic tree to the dining room.
Image by Jaye Marie
And this, as they say, is when the fun started.
On the first night, the fibre optic tree turned itself off at 10 pm. Puzzled, we checked the instructions, but it wasn’t supposed to do that. It hadn’t overheated either. Before we could turn it on the second day, it turned itself on and then off again at 10pm!
We made sure it was switched off, thinking it just a fluke, although it felt distinctly weird. We are quite used to weird in this house. Remember that red light reflecting on our window, the one we never could find the reason for?
The next night, we switched it on and waited. It felt uneasy, as if someone we couldn’t see was controlling the tree.
It was one of those trees that has the capability of a choice of different light patterns. Twinkling, fading and several other combinations. We only wanted the static light, so we were very glad it didn’t decide to muck about with the sequence too.
Despite the weirdness, we have kept the tree… and it has turned itself on every afternoon, and off in time for bed.
What would you have done in these circumstances, chucked it out or run for the hills?
here I am in my trusty silver steed My favourite four-legged friend sitting beside me I tip my top hat to a lady passing I have thrown a four, stopping before chance I can hear the trains at Fenchurch street Speeding, I narrowly miss a spell in jail I would have lost the chance to collect two hundred The wait to get out of jail would be too long I continue my journey through Regent Street One of my favourite places to stop and look around I can see hotels being built People having sold their houses, now thinking big In the distance, Mayfair, one of the most lucrative places To build your first million…
The image is from Victor Moriyama at the New York Times.
For the visually challenged writer, the photo shows people seen in individual units through the large windows of a multi-unit apartment building.
Empty rooms
Darkness that makes me wonder what lies hidden Windows lit, solitary beings stand within What do they wait for? Do they wait for darkness to take their pain? Could be they wait for a lover to be let in The darkness plays out many lives Within the same space Each story reflecting hope played to a different tune Which window do you hide behind?
I hear the voice, as if someone walks one step behind me The words unformed, the sound of an angry bee caught in a web I turn, face the empty street Keeping my voice low, I ask, who are you? “I am your shadow, here inside you Where no light shines. Most of your life you have taken no notice of me As if I don’t exist.” My shadow is nothing more than a trick of the light “You think so? I am here to tell you I can be free of you. Let someone tread on your shadow, while you continue to walk away You may feel lighter without me. You will feel slower, your days will take longer to pass Each time you allow someone to step on me A small part disappears Soon I will be gone, you will miss me, wish me to return This I will not do; I will have the freedom I seek…”
Mountains high Old dark scars Black tar rivers run High castle walls Lords and Ladies having fun Unearthly sounds split the night Warning went unaided Fools entered Swallowed by dark inner walls Never would angels enter Indoor evil attracts its own Walls scarred by sounds new, swell Souls buried in old castle mortar Too long they lie forgotten Names scratched on walls Calling out dates to remember No visitors heeding Their hearts unturned By old news…
