Here is this week’s entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by the lovelyRochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes my offering for this week – and I welcome your comments again!
“Mother?”
“Yes, honey?”
“What are these things under the ramp?”
“Hold on a moment, sugar, let me just finish this. Here, you have one as well, they’re to die for.”
“Mmm, oh yes!”
“What did you want to know? Sorry, I got side-tracked. Here, have the last one.”
“I wanted to know about the jagged things under the ramp.”
“Oh, yes. I think they’re steps. Back in the Lean Times, people walked. Instead of zooming up the ramp in one of these babies, they had to use the steps, wasting all their energy. Strange, huh?”
“How primitive! Mother?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Can we buy another box of Snickers bars? I could do with a snack before lunch.”
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Click on the blue froggy below to read others’ offerings!
Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Open Link – why not take a look at all of the other wonderful responses?
Please don’t panic – despite the tone of the poem, it isn’t a reflection of how I feel. Offline, I am writing dystopian fiction, so I was pondering how a particular set of characters might feel in this world that I have created for them. This piece came from there, nowhere else.
Let me know what you think…
*****
– Rubicon –
Render me empty, Sackclothed and dull Darker than ditchwater Coated in oil, rainbow-hued surface Hidden depths that boil, As I blunder, lamed, from crisis to fall Render me empty Sackclothed and dull
Render me hollow, Empty my skull Vacuous, ransacked Littered with spoil, nutrients stolen My still waters roil As I falter, blinded, beleaguered, I fall Render me hollow, Empty my skull
Render me soulless, Eviscerated, null Grey, empty, mourning Exhausted with toil, eyes bloodshot red From life, I recoil As I stumble, burdened and buried, I fall Render me soulless Eviscerated, null
Here, at the river’s widest point, is the only place we can stand without being seen by them. We wave and blow kisses, calling to each other in vain.
It has been 427 days since I last held her in my arms – my sister, my best friend. Each night my dreams are plagued with thoughts of building a raft, or swimming across, somehow holding my precious son high above my head to keep him safe. But it is impossible. The current is too strong, the waters too deep.
I crossed over that day, chasing a rumour of fresh flour, baby formula and potatoes. I never imagined they would demolish the bridge. I never imagined that I would be separated from my son. My dreams are torture.
Copyright – Kent Bonham
