Tag Violence

Poets for Peace – a wonderful collaboration

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I’ve been lucky enough to be invited to take part in a poetic collaboration which I believe deserves a huge amount of support. Over at Forgotten Meadows, something truly beautiful is happening. A collaboration of poets are coming together to promote the cause ‘Poets for Peace’.

Each poet is sharing their thoughts and feelings on the escalation of violence and hatred that appears to be everywhere in the world, apparently more than ever before. No hatred of genders, races, political persuasions, religions or beliefs is expressed, just the hatred of violence itself.

This has been launched by Michael of The Poetry Channel and is hosted on Forgotten Meadows.

Even if I hadn’t been invited to take part, I would have promoted this cause anyway once I learned about it. I began my own poetic forays into expressing my fears of (government mandated) violence as a young teenager, so this is a subject close to my heart.

Praxis Magazine Online will be publishing the collaboration, thanks to the kind assistance of Laura M. Kominski.

Please do take some time to visit Forgotten Meadows and learn more about Poets for Peace  – and please do take part if you feel moved to do so. 

#poetsforpeace

 

Discarded – Trifecta Week 91

freyathewriter 27 Comments

Below is my offering for Trifecta’s week 91 challenge word, which is ‘brand’. As you will see from the Trifecta blog post, the challenge is to write between 33 and 333 words of fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, based on the 3rd definition from the Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary. This week the 3rd definition of ‘brand’ is:

a (1): a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate ownership;

a(2): a printed mark made for similar purposes: a trademark

b(1): a mark put on a criminal with a hot iron

b(2): a mark of disgrace: stigma <the brand of poverty>

Here’s my offering below – I hope you like it! By way of backstory, this is a tiny extract from my work in progress novel (first edit done, second edit underway), which I first began as part of NaNoWriMo in 2011. It’s very rough and sharing this feels like I’m walking naked in front of you all, but for the word prompt it fits very well, as the issue of branding people runs right through my whole novel.

Please check here for the other entries!

*****

– Discarded –

The Penitents halted their circling and stamped their feet together abruptly. The noise echoed across the landscape – a crow rose from its perch in protest, a jagged ‘V’ in the sky. Dragging Gregor to his feet, the men pulled him to a nearby tree, binding him to its trunk face first.

A hooded figure marched forward and with one movement ripped Gregor’s cloak and shirt away revealing his target – the brand that lay beneath. In piteous defence, bare skin puckered with goose flesh against the dawn chill, but nothing could protect Gregor from the slash of knives as they flew, glinting in the winter sunlight, carving deep clefts from which gory jewels dripped, splattering the rocks at his feet. Flint struck stone, a muffled woomph followed as a torch was lit. There was a moment’s hesitation, cut short by a swift nod and flames were set against the bloody flesh, consuming and devouring with sickening greed. Gregor’s body sagged – the flame was extinguished.

The hooded man surveyed his prey for a moment then spat on the ground. ‘Not a squeal from him – how disappointing. Unleash him. He’s not worth the rope. Dispense with the formalities, he will soon understand his fate when he wakes. He is Discarded, for the record. Let us return to The Portal and continue our task.’

The Penitents untied Gregor’s senseless form, and cast him to one side. For good order they too spat on the ground before gliding away.

*****

Copyright - Freya

Copyright – Freya

Trifecta

In a safe place

freyathewriter 10 Comments

I told her not to come back. I told her – this is exactly what I said – “You must never come back here.” That’s what I told her. I didn’t feel safe.

I was terrified. I changed the locks. I checked the windows each night and every morning, just to be on the safe side, you know? I barricaded myself in. I changed my schedule, stopped walking the same way to work. I made everything different. Or rather, I tried to make it that way.

You see, there were things I couldn’t change.

I couldn’t stop what she did, how she behaved. She used to tell me that, all the time. She would say it just like that – “You can’t control me Chloe. You can’t put me in a box. You can’t file me away.” That’s what she would say.

She wasn’t neat and tidy, not like me. She was too noisy, too messy, too untidy. She scent-marked everything, like a dog.

So untidy.

I like order. It’s how my life works, how it makes sense. I like the quietness of everything in place. It keeps me calm, makes me feel safe. I like things to be clean. I like peace.

I wasn’t safe when she was around. She was always here, in every room at once. Nowhere belonged any more.

I told her not to come back, do you understand. I told her, just like that – “You must never come back here.”

She didn’t listen. She insisted on doing what she wanted to do, just like she always had done. I was very, very clear.

Now, she’s made even more of a mess. She made me. She made me make a mess. Just look, everywhere. Broken glass, shattered plates, wine, pasta, in all the wrong places.

All that mess, all that noise, all that disorder, oh it hurts so badly, it makes me cry.

I was so afraid. So, so afraid.

It hurts. It makes me cry.

That’s what she said – yes, these are the words she said to me, and she was crying too – “Look. Chloe, you’ve hurt me, you’ve really, really hurt me. It hurts so badly. Make it stop.”

That’s what she said.

I did what I was told. I’m so good at following rules and orders. I made it stop.

I made it stop.

I like things to be neat and tidy. I washed it, put it back in the drawer, in just the right place.

Everything is silent now. I shut the door to the kitchen. If I can’t see it, it isn’t there, that’s right, isn’t it? That’s what she used to tell me, when I got really stressed, when she made another mess – “Shut the door. You can’t see it. It doesn’t matter if you can’t see it.”

I’ve shut the door. She was right.

I can’t see her any more.

She won’t come back.

It’s so quiet.

Now, I am safe.