the flaking paint
the silvered wood
the empty chair memorial
in the silent square
the milling group
– hardly a crowd – silenced
the ghost memories, phantom scars
pressing, beseeching, begging, needing
I remember the darkness beyond those doors –
those doors that had witnessed
tragedies a thousand-fold
the cold-sweat terrors
the children torn from their parents’ grasp
in hindsight –
I thought I would try to write my entry today for both dVerse Poetics – where the theme is ‘doors’, thank you Lillian for hosting – and the WordPress Daily Prompt – where the theme is ‘Generation’. I hope I succeeded!
Both of the images are from the Krakow Ghetto, where I was fortunate to visit (if that’s the right word) a few years ago. The empty chair memorial is incredibly moving, for me in the lump in the throat kind of a way. The homes, the remnants, which are still inhabited, are dilapidated, and I can hardly imagine what the conditions must have been like during the ghetto’s existence. The picture at the top is of one of the houses, behind one of the few remaing parts of the ghetto wall. (I didn’t take these particular photos).
Anyway, if you want to read other writer’s offerings, or take part yourself in either or both of these writing prompts, please click the links above.
Lor’! He were like a moth to a flame, that boy! I told him, I did, that it would come to a bad end, but would he listen? No, course he wouldn’t, he was blinded by her, that fancy piece and her airy ways!
I tell you though, he should’ve gone for my Lucy, he should. She had a steady job with prospects, she did. Safely settled at that Captain de Riviera’s town house, working hard as a lady’s maid. And most of all, she loved the bones of him, she really did.
P’shaw! Look what’s become of them all! That boy Kit wanderin’ the streets lighting lamps every night, talking to ‘isself like a madman, and that young lady, dead an’ all. She come to a bad end, she did, an’ I feel sorry for the Captain, rattlin’ around alone in that big old house of his, really I do.
But it’s my Lucy I worrit on, day and night. That boy can’t see how much she loves him. Always did an’ always will. How it hurt her to see him blinded by that fancy girl’s ways… I don’t know how she stood it all along…
Here’s my latest entry into Magpie Tales – I hope you enjoy it! If it feels like you’ve stepped part way into a story, you’ll be right! I wrote two tales yesterday for VisDare and Five Sentence Fiction, and thought it would be good to round them off with this little offering.
They are told from three different perspectives – firstly, that of Kit Roberts’ mysterious admirer, next Little Mo and finally, as told here, Lucy’s mother. Did something sinister happen? You betcha! Who played a foul game? That would be telling!