She washes the dishes in a blindingblur of tears, performing the same routine as yesterday and the day before…
Today is different though, she muses as she dries her hands on a towel. Today she is finished with being the passive recipient of her husband’s baleful glares and grinding criticism. He moved out this morning and served her with divorce papers.
At first, she was flummoxed by this sudden dismantling of their lives, however unsuited they were, but as she tidies the house, she feels light and free.
She makes herself a jam sandwich… on the good china.
Welcome! I am temporarily hosting the FFFC while Fandango recuperates. Please join me in sending good vibes to Fandango with the hope that he’ll be back in top blogging form ASAP. In the meantime, I will be posting a photo I grab off the internet and challenging bloggers to write a flash fiction piece or a poem inspired by the photo. There are no style or word limits.
This week’s photo is credited to Fill1970 on Pixabay. It depicts two women seated at a table in a restaurant or at a gathering with one telling the other a secret. People mill about in the background.
Gracious Barbara @ Book Club Mom has interviewed me! Please check it out! She gave me a very comprehensive set of questions and I know you are curious. So get on over there, read, like, leave a comment, and BUY ALL MY BOOKS… let’s go!
Your voice retains A slight Southern twang, Barely noticeable, But I notice That warm summer tang— It transforms your narcissistic pumpkins Into gilded porch swing coaxes. Not the deserved frogs and snakes, But darlins and honeys drip From your mint juleped mouth, So sweetly And irresistibly, That even now I can’t remember What I was angry about. Come to Wonderland, You said after a month of silence; Meet me in Wonderland, You said with an edge of red velvet promise. The hint of a future That never materializes, The suggestion of the possible, A tantalization of fantasy… All tempt me to project my version of reality Onto your humid jabberwocky And slide down that rabbit hole Looking for cake. But there is no cake, Only a Cheshire checkerboard And messages that dissolve at midnight, Leaving a slight scent of magnolias.
Concrete surrounds you in a tedium of grey upon grey, under a steely sky promising rain that never comes. Even the trees have been stripped of color so as not to offend. There are no beeps, buzzes, barking, birdsong, or any possibility of irritation.
The bleak optics transcend your reality of freedom from suffering and struggling; perversely, they magnify your isolation to the point where this bespoke heaven feels like punishment.
When did I ask for this, you moan in despair, missing your flawed family, your annoying friends, and your stressful job. But no one is listening because interaction disappeared to eliminate conflict. You check your phone, hoping for at least a robocall, but those are gone too.
I didn’t mean it, you scream in a flurry of self-pity, and a grey cat materializes from the fog with a grey mouse in his mouth.
The spaghetti mystery Baffled the brilliant brain Of physicist Richard Feynman, Who died unable to explain Why a stressed strand snaps In multiple locations, Not conveniently in half.
My grandmother counted The strands of spaghetti To cook half a box; She was neurotic like that, Didn’t trust guesstimates. She knew to do the twist, Though she never took physics, To keep the stress centered, And avoid getting pasta bits All over the stovetop.
Now they have an equation To describe the stress breaks Of spaghetti strands — Physicists rejoice! It’s not just about the pasta, You understand. Lots of things have multiple Stress points and could snap Unpredictably When put under pressure, Especially if there’s a pot Of boiling water nearby.
I am a wayward introvert, Ducking out of invitations, Alone upon my hill until I crave in-person conversations. But even a minuscule amount Of socializing is so draining; I rushhome again to recharge, With equilibrium maintaining.
THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN! Triple riddle poetry written for the Skeptic’s Kaddish W3 39 for Brandon’s prompt. Please email me your guesses (firstname.lastname@example.org) so as not to spoil the game for others. Thanks!