dirges given voice in the darkness

The girl who sang the blues finished her pleas for a new car, a color TV, and a night on the town, the player shuffled down a song, and the unmistakeable sounds of the E-Street Band took her place.  The Boss began to sing from his soul, and then his harmonica plucked yours loose to hauntingly tag along as he raced down the streets.

Blue flashes sparked off the dull red glow of the taillights shining in the windshield as you pressed firmly down on the gas pedal and sped through the morning gloom.  You didn’t mean to speed but you couldn’t help it either.  The car was trying to catch up to your soul as it flitted through memories of your past and visions of your dreams.

The Jack of Hearts, standing on the sidewalk next to a mangled motorcycle, his leg in a cast, caught your attention, a crystal clear image bursting from the blurred edges, but then you turned back to the road, back to the pursuit, back to the chase you’d been on before he’d caught your eye.  Bruce’s voice didn’t allow time for distractions.  There was too much urgency.  There was too much at stake.

The lights streamed into continuous lines of red.  Other colors swirled away to be swallowed by the darkness.  A warm glow on the horizon heralded the imminent arrival of dawn, but its time hadn’t come yet, and there were still miles to travel before it did.  The streak of yellow on the ground, running parallel to the taillights, slowed from its dizzying speeds as the song changed again.

The mournful crooning of passionate nostalgia faded away to be replaced by the deep rasping responsibility of the Man in Black as he went about walking his line.  He walked, you drove, and the line was heeded.  Johnny demanded it.  You would not, could not argue against that.  The quartet practicing in the park understood, even if they didn’t join along with the dirges given voice in the darkness.

The words may have resonated with your soul, still lost in the black world, but the darkness was slowly fading as the road continued to turn into the sun’s waiting embrace.  Ahead of you was warmth and hope.  Behind you was chill and despair.  In those moments just before dawn you doubted that even the intense fire waiting to pour down from the heavens had the power to lift the cold that had wrapped around the past you were leaving behind.

Even if you were in the habit of making deals with the devil, Jack Flash, sitting on his candlestick and laughing in delight, couldn’t free you from your rage.  Your world had changed irrevocably.  The entire world had changed and was never going back.  Johnny knew that, even as he sang of staying true to the one he loved, he knew that somethings in life were impossible to avoid, impossible to undue.  All you could do was keep driving down your road, keep chasing your soul.

You would be reunited eventually.  You were certain of that.  There would be twists and turns, ups and downs, roadblocks, tolls, detours, and all manner of distractions and scenic turnouts to slow your progress.  But, you would be whole again.  The colors of the coming dawn splashing in wide arcs across the star spotted sky spoke to that truth.  It spoke to all truths of life and death.  Your soul might be elusive, the music might have died, but, in the end, things would turn out as they had always meant to be.

…………………….

My response to the current Finish the Story prompt.  I have no idea what any of it means, but it was fun to write.  What did it say to you?  And, did you write a response of your own?  You’ve still got some time!  Go!  Do it!

 

Featured Image -- 3219

RAINING POETRY

djmatticus:

The poetic dynamo, Hasty, was kind enough to write a duet with me. Head on over and check it out.

Originally posted on hastywords:

Another new duet partner.  Thank you for writing with me Matticus

Also, I am using an image I found of an artist named Khaled al Saai, who is incredible and I hope you check out his art site by clicking on the picture.

alsaii
Calligraphy by Khaled al Saai

Written by Matticus and HastyWords

The ‘sphere, smooth, invitingly gleams,
Word by word, clean, I loose my waltz,
Rise and fall, elegant, a dream,
But the story spins, discord, the music halts.

The atlas upon which I had always spun,
Stood silent inside these forgotten halls.
Upset tapestries billowed curses at the sun,
As shadows wrote blasphemy on my walls.

Steps falter, unknown, across the floor,
Balance shifts, lost, gracelessly flails,
The line breaks, shattered, spills out its moor,
The written dance, chaos, slips the rails.

Rusty tears free form into a manic dive,
Smearing stains, blurred arcs, finding rest;
A spilled…

View original 63 more words

time will tell

“Off with his head!”
“What was his crime?”
“Wrong place, wrong time:
Fears need be fed.”

 

“What will we gain?”
“Nothing, everything,”
His shoulders shrug,
His face is smug.
“Will it hurt, sting?”
“Quick, then no pain.”

 

Hooded black masks,
Stone sharpened steel,
Tested by feel,
No going back.

 

“But to what end?
Why risk waking,
Sleeping giant?”
Light off sword glints,
Lips are sneering,
Eyes cleave and rend.

 

“Those comatose,
Toothless, cowards,
Have no power,
And ours still grows.”

 

Mumbles, “Mistake…”
The camera rolls.
The sword swings through,
Collects its due.
The film is full.
“Destiny waits!”

 

From dreaming well,
The giant stirs,
And takes notice.
But what happens next is a story that only time can tell.

the talking heads

“You say you want a revolution, well, you know, we all want to change the world.”

Drip. Drip-drip. Drip.

The water pooled in the bottom of the cup slowly as the drops fell from the fully open faucet. The gush that should have filled the glass in a few seconds was non-existent. The unsteady beat of solitary beads was all that remained.

Drip-drip. Drip. Drip.

They, the talking heads of the media, had said that a solution would arise, that water delivery was not in jeopardy. Water, clean and dependable, was essential to continued life, and as always throughout history when a need was great a solution was found. Without water there was no hope of survival. It had been their first priority and they had failed.

Drip. Drip. Drip-drip.

The hand holding the glass began to shake with the strain of holding it in place. The pressure of not wanting to waste a single drop, the exertion of holding the receptacle of life as still as possible, the first signs of emerging dehydration all played their part. They didn’t dare turn the water off though to give their hand a rest, the concern the water wouldn’t come back at all was too great.

Drip. Drip. …

………………

Click. Click.

The lights flicked off and then immediately back on. A quick glance in that direction confirmed that nobody manned the light switch by the door. The disturbance was another rolling blackout as the electricity service was momentarily interrupted. They were growing more frequent as energy reserves were depleted.

Click. Click.

They, the talking heads of the media, had warned that some disruption to electrical utilities was unavoidable as efforts were being ramped up to conserve what remained, and new sources were sought. Then the power had shut off and when it had come back on the talking heads were gone and electric snow had taken their place. That only stood to confirm what most had known for a long time already, the talking heads had never really known anything in the first place.

Click.

………………

Bang. Bang-bang. Bang.

They, the talking heads of the media, had urged humans to retain their humanity, and had posited that there were high hopes that the fall of society could be done with a semblance of peace and calmness. They had been wrong, of course. When the water disappeared and the lights went off it was only a matter of minutes before gunfire erupted in the streets. The rule of the land quickly shifted to survival of the fittest with a gun.

Bang!

………………

“But when you talk about destruction, don’t you know you can count me…” in.

Perhaps if they had been more willing to turn to the gun as a solution sooner, perhaps if they had realized the talking heads only served their own purposes sooner, perhaps if they had been willing to fight sooner, there would have been a world left worth saving. However, when the water disappeared and the lights went off, it was much too late to initiate a change for the better.

Prompt: Finish the Story (#5)

It’s Tuesday!  And we all know what that means!  The worst day of the week, hooray, hooray, hoo … oh, wait.  No, that’s not what it means anymore.  Now it’s Finish the Story prompt day!  That’s really worth celebrating.

In a bit of sad news, I no longer have access to WordPress for most of the day and will consequentially be far less prompt (see what I did there?) in reply to comments.  But, I will reply to all of them, eventually.  I promise.

And, I will even do proper pingbacks and recognition for everyone who plays along with these silly prompts, eventually, too.

And here’s the new one:

………………..

The girl who sang the blues finished her pleas for a new car, a color TV, and a night on the town, the player shuffled down a song, and the unmistakeable sounds of the E-Street Band took her place.  The Boss began to sing from his soul, and then his harmonica plucked yours loose to hauntingly tag along as he raced down the streets.

Blue flashes sparked off the dull red glow of the taillights shining in the windshield as you pressed firmly down on the gas pedal and sped through the morning gloom.  You didn’t mean to speed but you couldn’t help it either.  The car was trying to catch up to your soul as it flitted through memories of your past and visions of your dreams.

The Jack of Hearts, standing on the sidewalk next to a mangled motorcycle, his leg in a cast, caught your attention, a crystal clear image bursting from the blurred edges, but then you turned back to the road, back to the pursuit, back to the chase you’d been on before he’d caught your eye.  Bruce’s voice didn’t allow time for distractions.  There was too much urgency.  There was too much at stake.

The lights streamed into continuous lines of red.  Other colors swirled away to be swallowed by the darkness.  A warm glow on the horizon heralded the imminent arrival of dawn, but its time hadn’t come yet, and there were still miles to travel before it did…

Whatever it will be…

You must write every single day of your life...

...You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.

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