In his spell and under his control, I am in awe.
The soft light picked up his uneven growth, the twist of his tongue in concentration and his focussed blue eyes. It was as if I didn’t exist but I will always remember Dad’s shadow puppet shows.
Feeling warmth on my neck but my guilt made me shiver.
Undeserved, she was innocent. It’s just one of those things.
Her eyes are an empty vessel filling with danger.
Holding hands in hope, I walk with a stranger.
Written as part of Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group
If I could turn back time;
not just me hearing Cher?
Looking back thirty years,
some are dark, others clear.
If I went back,
it’d be for the good.
Enjoying laughter and joy
like everyone should.
But live is a blessing,
we get only one.
So I’ll stay here thinking,
of all that I’ve done.
Part six in a poetry series called Life
Daily prompt: If I Could Turn Back Time
An alert arrives; a happy reader, inspiration at last.
Fingers chase my rushing mind. I’ve remembered the smiles, the true reason I write.
Daily prompt: Writerly reflections
Eyes tugging at your wallet
Over stuffed teddies clad in red silk
Cross bones replaced by hearts
Cards hang like flags on masts
Both a warning and notification, we’re “the chosen ones”
Retail pirates, treasure buried in florist’s pots.
Love makes me smile but …
Commercialism stole Valentine’s Day
Inspired by both, Valentine’s Day itself and the weekly challenge at The Daily Post
These walls no longer represent just my home, but my life. They are my closest friends and confidants.
Tomorrow we will say goodbye.
While I should be full of joy, tears fill my eyes. Not the effects of sleep deprivation or the brightness of camera flashes.
My name is Schapelle and I’m free … apparently.
For those who are unaware of her story – Schapelle Corby was caught at in Indonesian prison with 4kg of marijuana in the body board bag she was carrying. She was convicted of multiple drug charges and sentenced to 20 years in jail. After nine years of continually declaring her innocence, she is now due to be set free*.
* Saying this, it is likely that the waiting Australian media will determine her exact level of freedom.
The bag was removed from my head and I was lead through the house but such was my state, I struggled for details. Following one and being pushed by another, there could have been four or five people in the house, I couldn’t be sure.
I’d lost track of the time but it must have been a few hours since I’d been walking home now.
I’d been returning from a night out and was only only meters from my home when I noticed a dark coloured car with its interior lights on. “Lost tourists?”, I remember thinking before they suddenly burst from their vehicle; knocking me to the ground before shoving a bag over my head and my body into the boot. It happened too quick to struggle.
Now as they approached the doorway, my returning sense of awareness and will to survive combined. As if the door were to hell itself, I fought as hard as I could.
It was no use, the more i fought the more clenched fists and boots struck my frantic body. It was over.
My head thumped in the door on the way through as I stumbled into the room, collapsing on the cold tiles within.
The memory of being kidnapped drowned out by the deafening, and near debilitating ringing in my ears. How long had I been here?
Light turned to dark and dark turned to light – another day had passed. Waking, the ringing had ceased but had been replaced by a terrible thirst.
I pulled myself to my feet for the first time since being thrown in this room come dungeon. Foreign machinery, four cupboard doors and a sink.
Turning the cold tap, the pipes rattled like the fear in my heart. A brown sludge dribbled slowly from the tap as I heard footsteps outside.
Slapping my hands away from the sink they pushed me towards the machinery in the corner before slamming the door shut.
A voiced bellowed in the distance. “Get to work!” Ignoring both my fear and thirst, i opened the obvious hatch door in the first machine. I thought I’d better try and figure this out before they return.
Try as I might is was useless, the machinery was like none I’d ever seen. Straight lines formed its exterior and smooth round edges appeared inside.
Then it hit me, “I’d heard that bellowing voice before”.
Distracted from the task at hand, I stared through the cracks if the blinds. That voice?
It wasn’t so much the voice I recalled but the harshness of tone; demanding and disappointed with a touch of desperation.
“Get back to work!” The words echoed as I sifted through the mountain of rags like memories in my mind. I sorted colours from whites as I did good from bad before dropping to my knees, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Get back to work” I laughed, “cover the left flank, put in a bit of effort kids, are you serious ref!?” The footsteps outside the door grew louder with each phrase but I no longer feared their sound.
Two figures appeared at the door this time, both far less intimidating than the one that came before them.
“Mum, I was scared of Uncle Bob when he’d come to my football games and yell from the sidelines but are you serious? ” I questioned. “I know I never wash my own clothes but this is a little extreme isn’t it … even for you!?”
A four part instagram series inspired by images of my mother in-law’s laundry
Relieved, I move past last night’s plates on the kitchen bench before collapsing into the couch’s welcoming arms like a returning son to his mother, I feel her unspoken love.
The remote remains untouched; I beat the children out of bed and birds from their nests.
Part two of a series on ‘silence’ – Details Emerge Without Volume.