The Grim Reaper

The crows have gathered

Wreathing across the grey sky

Swollen with grief 

Before descending the crooked limbs 

Of an old oak;

Bending their heads

In solemn piety 

For the grim reaper

Approaching with the shadows;

Unseen to the natural eye

Hooded cloak draping

Grass blades tipped in crimson

Bearing memory

Of the place where she died;

A wraith roaming the shade

Wild daisies kissing at her feet

But without preamble

His scythe tears apart

Her gossamer soul

And she screams through

An imagined agony

Fighting to keep

The familiar burden 

Of spilled emotions 

Until she realizes

She is finally free…

Tortured Ritual

Prepubescent inklings —

Words still too rubbery

And uncertain

Clumsily pressed together

Like a rushed project

Past its final deadline;

Filled with superfluities 

And a noticeable panic

Hedging each line;

Almost every page 

Reveals the same 

Nervous writing

Baring the frustrations

Of a tired mind

Helplessly fettered

To a tortured ritual

Restless — Weekend Writing Prompt #206

Restless voices

Echo on the shallows;

Disembodied groans

Uttered

In a wordless desperation

To learn the melodies

Of belonging

We’ve tumbled right along into a new weekend. Another State of emergency is about to be implemented where I live, and I’m starting to wish i could just work from home.

Besides that, I enjoy weekends because I look forward to SammiCox’s writing prompts. This weekend was quite challenging; it’s really hard to write a story/creative piece in only 19 words. For me, at least. I stared at the first two lines of my entry for over an hour before I could piece it into something coherent — I hope.

Please enjoy your Saturday and have an awesome weekend 💕

Drinking Habits

Coffee has become quite symbolic to me over the past year; the picture and fragrance of productivity. The smell permeates almost every office space I’ve entered recently. Even in my workplace, casual glances over my coworkers’ desks reveal proprietary mugs with telling stains. And for the more serious drinkers, there’s a mini coffee pot, either full of stale or fresh coffee, standing to the right of their desk.

There are two close colleagues in particular who share a ritual of placing a mug of hot, fresh coffee on the other’s desk – it all depends on who gets into the office first. I find the gesture quite endearing and it would’ve been nice if I shared that sort of working relationship with a coworker. Arriving at my desk to find warm coffee waiting for me, starting my day with the required caffeine boost. But I’m not really a fan of coffee.

My home country produces some of the best-known coffee and there was a time I loved fixing myself a glass, iced and flavored with Bailey’s (I often got a headache from this, but it was worth it to me then). I’d developed a taste for Nescafe’s French vanilla instant coffee, but the aftertaste was always too sweet. Saccharine. As if my entire throat and stomach had been soaked in sugar. And at that time, the smell of coffee was very nauseating to me.

In spite of how I felt about coffee though, I often frequented the local café by my community college. That’s how the smell grew on me and I’d buy a mochaccino each time I went, until it became my usual drink.

I love the atmosphere inside cafés. It’s like being in a library, without the oppressive edge that you shouldn’t make even a pin drop. The relaxing calm; the soft, occasional whir and hum of machines making drinks; murmured conversation; the scratch of ballpoint pens against paper and the focused rhythm of fingers tapping away at a laptop keyboard. It’s a different sort of freeing harmony that can only be found there. And it was always the perfect place for me to write.

Some of my ideas came from being inside a café and though I don’t visit cafes as much anymore since I migrated, I’ll go on occasion alone or with a coworker. There’s a Starbucks on almost every block. The convenience stores wedged between buildings always let out strong breaths of coffee in the morning when the glass doors slide open. I smell it everywhere I go and it’s always the business folk clutching a paper cup as they scurry the pavement to work.

My new drink of choice is the caramel macchiato – I take it hot since I realized I don’t have to stick to the routine of buying iced beverages. I used to think coffee was the only drink Starbucks served hot without any sort of real variations. Even though I know that now, I still go for the caramel macchiato. Sometimes I’ll try out the seasonal drinks, but as a general rule, I’m the stick-to-what-you-know-and-like type of person.

As for me, when I’m at work, my hot beverage of choice is a good old cup of Lipton with some tea biscuits on hand for dipping.

A Recluse’s Wish

Her junk email overflows in silent choruses of ‘Where are you’s’ and ‘We miss you’s’. She clicks through them all, feeling an odd sense of comfort. It’s all coding, she knows. A programmed sincerity from her neglected accounts that isn’t at all rooted in human concern. But it’s more than she’s ever gotten from the people she does know – friends and family, she could count on three fingers. Not that she blames them for their apathy. Because she makes it easy to forget; existing on the fringes of their conscious, legs dangling the deep gully where thoughtless remembrances tumble away. Which suits her just fine; this sense of anonymity that goes undisturbed for as long as she wants.

Or maybe it is her fault, having burrowed so deep in solitude. But it’d be nice, she admitted to the attentive walls — always eager to listen to her open musings — if they checked on her with a little enthusiasm and perhaps even a smidge of curiosity.

Unintended Neglect

Emptied boxes scatter the misted floor, collecting dust from ideas left too long in the shed. She kneels among the disarray of forgotten words – unfinished syllables and meager remnants of starved inspiration. Rusted and frayed. Breaking away like ashen sediments at the slightest touch. And she feels the wilting all around her as if it were her own heart losing its rhythm. She never meant for things to get this bad — even the cobwebs have grown too thick, stretching beyond clandestine borders to nest in streams of revealing light. And it is much too late to salvage what she’s lost.

Monday Morning Blues

Every Monday seems to be the same

Endless copies of banal monotony

That neither wind nor rain can change

A day breathed in heavy sighs

Dragging itself through the motions

Even the sun

Droops with a haggard indolence

Sagging over the clouds—

Grey with their own burdens

Full of the Monday morning blues

Ushering in another week

As the suited herd

File into their confined cubicles

While the clock watches

Scrutinizing the worth

Of their labor

And relief only comes

In the blur of minutes and seconds

Eclipsed in the commute back home;

Heels and shoes kicked off at the door

The stress and scum of the day

Washed away in hot streams

Down the drain

While the moon offers

An ephemeral slumber;

Precious hours

Before time resets

And the loop begins

All over again

Uncanny — Weekend Writing Prompt #205

The fortuneteller’s booth was a necromancer’s lair; filled with bones, talismans, vials and mysterious trinkets. But most uncanny was his hesitant grimace.

 “Are you sure you want to know your future?”

She nodded. What’s the worst that could happen?

This was my first busy weekend in a while. I didn’t get to write as much as I’d have liked, but I still wanted to do my best not to miss the weekend writing prompt by SammiCox.

Have a happy Sunday✨

Where Happiness Is

Happiness seems a far way off, though it exists within. A pearl hidden in the framework of shifting bones, bouncing along every knob and groove to its own melodies of reverie. In and out of sight; elusive glimpses lost in the labyrinthine chasm where disappointments and failures intumesce. Trapping the mind into a helpless obsession to focus on what isn’t instead of what is. Seeking answers from without. Drawing comfort from wells of transience that never truly satisfy, while misery burrows itself even further into that hollow place. But happiness awaits, beckoning through the sanguine clearing — eager to be found.