Jesterly Challenge Month – November 23rd

Dani challenged me (again) to write a spooky rhyming poem.  I quoted her a bit of The Raven, and she said “exactly.”  Well, she said something like that; I didn’t write it down.  Anyway, give the following a read and let me know how I did in the comments.

…..
…..

Lightning flashes and catches my eye,
As thousands of sparkling devils try,
In every rain drop gathered on the pane,
To shatter and batter my frayed nerves again.

Then the thunder strolls and rolls through,
The bones of my house shiver anew,
My teeth rattle in incessant prattle,
And fear grips and rips my heart on the mantle.

It’s there, biding and hiding, now,
Since she pulled it out, don’t ask me how,
And set it on high on a plate, like pie,
For me to stare and glare and enviously sigh.

The gaping and seeping chest wound,
Shall never heal despite time’s find tune,
And the resultant wage shall stay savage,
All the long and gone days until I’m ashes.

Be mindful and careful with trust,
Don’t give it away cheaply with lust,
Or one day it may be your heart removed,
And placed beating and dripping, your love refused.

Lightning flashes and catches my eye,
This storm will never fully pass by.
Forever I’ll quake, as my house shakes,
Forlornly and stubbornly watch my heart ache.

blood

It’s probably just the neighbor’s dog, you muse as the howl carries down the street to echo back to you, but that thought doesn’t keep your pace from quickening noticeably.  Nor does it keep you from breaking into a full sprint when the sound of padded feet racing towards you reaches your ears.  Your house is only two doors down, surely you can make it before whatever’s behind you reaches you, right?  Why waste time turning around even though you know the fear tearing at your heart is irrational, that the feet coming to greet you are likely harmless, that the beast is almost certainly one of the friendly ones you’ve petted a thousand times before.

It’s better to laugh at your absurd fear from the safety of your home, you rationalized, than to be wrong.  It wouldn’t have been the first time you’d scoffed at your own cowardice in the face of the unknown.  And continuing to be able to make a fool of yourself like that meant you were still alive.

As the patter of footfalls grows louder, you cut across your lawn to cut the distance to safety.  The wet grass, slick with evening marine layer, sticks to your shoes and will make a mess of your entryway, but it’s a mess that can be cleaned up.

Unlike my blood.

The unmistakable sensation of teeth clenching down on my right calf jars my sense just as I was about to reach for the doorknob.  Instead my hand lashes backwards, trying to ward off my attacker, but it meets only air.  Finally, I turn around to face the threat, but there is nothing there.  A throb of pain forces my eyes downward and a scream is the only response I have left to the trails of blood dripping down my leg.

Ghost-Dog

punctuated

My knuckles crack, and split, and bleed,
And my gaze blurs with sandpaper eyes,
The wind devours everything in its greed,
Punctuated by a raven’s throaty cries.

I feel thin, and stretched, and fragile,
Too little skin shielding me from the heat,
The wind rips and rends and I unravel,
Standing against it is more than a feat.

My head throbs, and aches, and pounds,
A hammer bursting through at my temples,
The wind gusts and the pressure abounds,
The resulting misery is beyond ample.

I long for relief: cool, and dark, and calm,
Someplace I can hide away from my pain for the day,
The wind sucks at the the windows, singing its song,
A disheartening and troubling raucous bray.

desert_wind_by_psychonaute-d4h1o72
Image Credit: psychonaute

My knuckles crack, and split, and bleed,
The red of my life spills across the paper,
The wind tosses it like a tumbling weed,
Punctuated with a thousand cutting sabers.

 

goodbye

Gone.

My muse.

My inspiration and creative outlet.

They left me.  Eventually, they always leave me.

There’s nothing left but the gun in my hand.

Cocked.

Pressed against my temple.

I pull the …

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Word Count: 33

The Trifecta Writing Challenge is stepping away before they lose the passion that has been the driving force over their run of prompts, critiques, and community building.  This week they offer their final prompt:

“For the final challenge here at Trifecta, we considered some flash and dazzle, a wild prompt to send us off with a bang. What we realized was the most achingly beautiful, haunting and dazzling words we’ve read from our brilliant community have been the ones you chose when you were given the freedom to write with abandon. So we’re lovingly, and eagerly, placing the choice in your hands. There’s no topic, no word, just a free write. Go anywhere your mind wants to travel. Take us there too. Just make it count, leave your blood all over this page. Thirty-three words exactly. Of course. We couldn’t end it any other way.”

I will definitely miss their prompts and the challenge to come up with something worth saying in so few words.  And you, dear kingdomites?  Can you leave your blood on the page in 33 words?

the smell

Tradition, passed down from generations no longer remembered, dictated that it be so.  They no longer questioned the need or relevance of killing.  Besides, they had grown to relish the smell of blood.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Word Count: 33

This dark tale was inspired by today’s Trifextra:

“In The Scorpio Races, author Maggie Stiefvater writes, “It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.”  Give us the next thirty-three words of this story, as you imagine it.  Take it wherever you like, but make it original and make it 33 words exactly.

If you want to find out more about Maggie Stiefvater, check out her Twitter here and her Facebook here.  If you use her words on your page, please be sure to credit her.”