Wordle #2 Darker


Tomoki Hayasaka

There is only this moment

Headlights and horns blaring

Moonskin eyes sere and cavernous

Knuckles tense and gutless

Like the womb of a prepared fish


The scarf around my neck

Sticks in the axle of your left wheel

That queer oscillating grimace

Vital to the propulsion

Of your defecting asylum


We gather feathers and rifts

Powered Juniper wishes

Which disintegrate between

Our intimating and indulgent lips


Why must we speak of misery

As if a sacred elixir brewed

By our ancestors and given in infancy?

As if it were the primary ingredient

Of our cellular composition

Like hemoglobin only darker 


Where’s the prompt?


Encase you missed the announcements. I have started a prompt site!

Which you can find here


Rather than have 1 weekly prompt. I now have a prompt for every day of the week! I have even brought in some talented writers to help with both hosting and managing the site. Everyone is welcome to participate. There are no obligations/requirements. Pick and choose the prompts that intrigue you. The time limit for each prompt is 1 week but you know me even if you posted late I would still read and comment to your entry.

Here’s the schedule

Monday- Wordle (hosted by Yves)

Tuesday- Photo Prompt (hosted by Yves)

Wednesday- Haiku/Tanka (hosted by Anmol)

Thursday- Short Stories (hosted by Oloriel)

Friday- Fairytales (hosted by Anja)

Saturday- Shadorma (hosted by Bastet)

Sunday- Freestyle (hosted by Yves)


Fairy Tale Challenge #1


sasha pivovarova paolo roversi

Princes are very rarely like those that appear in fairytales. On paper Dante was the ideal husband. Wealthy, handsome, perhaps even intelligent. His personality, on the other hand, left a good deal to be desired. The princesses he met didn’t bother getting to know him and quite honestly he was only after one thing (a wife). As the only heir to the throne it was crucial he carry on his lineage. In truth he didn’t want to marry. At least he didn’t want to marry so soon. He was only 21 and he still believed in love (he loved himself a good deal at least).


The prince’s ideal wife

She must be beautiful with a waist no larger than her thigh. She must have a good singing voice. She must be able to talk to animals. She must make sandwiches. She must be able to ride a horse bareback. She must do precisely as I tell her. She must be constantly in peril. Yes the prince wanted a bonafide Disney princess. Oddly no matter where he looked Dante could find no such woman. Most of the princesses he met were practical. He was rich, they liked expensive clothes case closed.


Dante’s father King Renault sent for the oracle. The oracle presented the young prince with a plain girl, a blind princess living in a collapsing kingdom. A princess who had no suitors and from the looks of it no real inclination toward marriage. “Do you jest oracle? Have you seen me? I can do much better than that…try again…” The prince said, his smile smug.


“The oracle has spoken….I will send for the girl at once…” The king announced. He did not care what the girl looked like so long as she had a kind heart. Though long dead, his own wife, had been a remarkable woman and he wanted his son to know such joy.


“Do not send for her….I will find a wife…just give me a little more time…” The prince’s face was earnest, his father relented.


The prince fell into his old womanizing ways no sooner than he left the oracle. He still had plenty of time to find a wife. His father, though old, was reasonably healthy. Their kingdom was flourishing. He was handsome and of noble birth any woman would be lucky to have him.


As it so happens the prince soon found a wife only she belonged to someone else. The man for whom she did belong was jealous and though he warned the young noble on a numerous occasions the prince could not be dissuaded. The two men fought violently and though the prince was well-trained he was no match for a solider with real-life battle experience. To say that Dante lost would have been an understatement. He was nearly killed and his once handsome face was scarred beyond recognition.


Despite his wealth the princesses were frightened away by his grotesque appearance. That he’d been beaten by a lowly solider put into question his competence as a future king and no father was willing to commit their daughter to such an uncertain fate. Suddenly his courts were empty. Even the servant girls who’d admired him at a distance had lost interest.


“There is still hope let me send for the princess the oracle spoke of…” The king said for now his health was not so good and he was beginning to worry over the fate of his kingdom. “I do not deserve that girl or any other…I must first become a man….send me to war…” King Renault reflected long and hard on his son’s words but he could not risk the prince’s death.


“I will send you to the temple…live as the monks do….train with them and then if you still want to go to battle I will send you….”


The prince agreed to the arrangement though he underestimated the hardship greatly. He expected special treatment but even his rank did not afford it. He was made to shave his head, to dress as a monk, to eat nothing but rice and vegetables in meager portions, to sleep on a thin straw mat, to pray for hours, and to train until he could no longer move. Despite his complaints he never sent a letter to his father begging release. By the end of his first year his father came to visit. King Renault was astonished by the change but his son would not return home. The second year he came the young noble requested permission to exchange letters with the princess. Though it was forbidden for monks to have contact with women they allowed him this exception for the sake of the kingdom.


For the next few years he exchanged letters with the blind princess. Who he found was nothing at all like the other princesses he knew. Their letters were chaste. They spoke of their lives, their feelings, they composed simple seasonal poems to one another, and bit by bit the prince opened up to the girl. He told the princess about his scars and how he’d acquired them. He even told her about the oracle and she told him that the oracle had been to see her father as well. If he was scarred as he described than they were to be married.


The prince left the monastery after five years. Shortly after he and the princess were wed. The princess was stubborn and self-reliant. She made sandwiches just as he liked them but she did not do as he said. She could in fact ride a horse bareback but she could not sing. She talked a good deal (to animals, people, shrubberies and everything inbetween) and he found her most interesting (though sometimes infuriating).  Most importantly she had a kind heart.


I’m afraid I’m not very good at Fairytales. Finding a plain princess was impossible so I just went with a photo where you can’t see the face.

The Real Monster (warning disturbing deals with child abuse)


My mom doesn’t understand why I no longer eat dinner in her company. Why I take my plate to my room and return hungry with empty dishes. She doesn’t notice the stench. The uneaten food rotting inside my closet’s counterfeit womb.


His name is Freddy and I saw him in a movie. Adults can’t see him. I’ve tried to make friends with him. Even monsters need to eat. If your nice to people they’ll be nice to you, at least that’s what they say in church. In practice I haven’t been able to make it work. I must be bad on the inside.


“Freddy’s gonna get me…” I look over my shoulder at mom while we’re watching television. She comes over and kneels beside me. Can she see him too? I don’t understand her questions, only her fear. I should comfort her. I don’t want her to get mad she’ll pull my hair or worse hold her hand over my mouth and nose until I can’t breathe anymore. Freddy’s more of a bogeyman than a person. Sometimes I see him on television and often when I sleep. Well technically I don’t see him because it’s too dark but I know he’s there. She seems relieved. I don’t feel better for having told her. If anything I feel worse. He’ll punish me for telling on him. I wonder if he can hear us talking from the other world? I wonder if he can hear my thoughts even when I’m awake? I wonder if he knows how much I hate him and if that scares him just a little?


“What happens if he gets hungry?” I tug on my mom’s sleeve. She’s scooping up the waste from several days worth of uneaten dinners. She seems more startled than angry. She doesn’t even spank me despite the mess.


“What have you done? The food will attract roaches…” The smell is really awful. I feel sick. I can tell from my mom’s expression that she doesn’t “hear” me. “Freddy can’t hurt you…he’s not real…you’re just having bad dreams…” I let her clean the closet without interfering, the food wasn’t really working anyways.


I know that Freddy’s real, that my dreams are real. His breath smells like ash and there’s blood from where he cuts me inside. I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to anger him anymore than I already have. I have to be a good girl and when I am good enough bad things won’t happen. God will take me to heaven when I am good enough.


This happened when I was about 4 I was terrified of Freddy Krueger from the Nightmare on Elmstreet films (which I was allowed to watch). I now know that it was a real life monster attacking me in my sleep, my father but at that time I simply could not process the situation. The pain, the smell of ash (Freddy’s burnt and my dad is a smoker), the fact that it was happening to me in my sleep my child mind invented an alternate explanation. I was religious as a child.

Written for

Tale Weaver Prompt #1

To dream or not to dream


Robert Mapplethorp


If you stand too close

To the heart of the matter

You are bound to scar


Will I part with dignity

Wraith wings palpitating

Amidst a populous lament?

Or will I, as ash, disseminate

Into the bowels

Of an unsigned grave?


How long I have lived

If pain is a testament

A transparent thorn

In a garden that neither

Blossoms nor withers


Will I end an imitation

To the Creator I failed?

My legacy evanescent

Books burned for warmth

In the belly of a metal drum

Expendable to the craft

But exploitable in a fix


The arts are often disregarded for being impractical (they seem to be vanishing from schools along with fitness) and poets are looked at as irresponsible for following a dream that does not generally result in a sustainable income. I am constantly at war with myself. Follow my dreams, go all in or do something more well realistic (it is hard to do both and become a genius). Weighing what I want against what others want and expect of me. It is enough to drive a person well mad!


Photo Challenge #1 Bad Connection


The silentious migration of our hearts

Conversations abate but do not dissolve

The imposition of volitional space

Wherever our lips meet there is a war

Intentions coiled like a noose

Promises of reunion and civility

Occasions that never present

Occasions that pass forgotten until

Inquiry reaps a deadening excuse

Wordle #1 The Mother-in-law



Though impractical as a nursery the attic afforded both light and space. My husband’s mother occupied the guest room and given her condition we’d not thought it wise to move her. Her anomalous lungs grew stiffer each day. Her pale blue face expressionless despite the unmediated pain. She was not long for this world and it felt to me as if a part of her had already departed.

“Place this in the baby’s bassinet…” I took the straw doll from my mother-in-law’s withered hand. The effluvium of her decomposing breath forcing an unconscious retreat.

“What’s in the pouch?” I already knew the answer some days ago she’d come to me with a pair of cooking shears and clipped a lock of the hair from the base of my neck.

“You ask a lot of unnecessary questions…” She eyed me with something between surrender and frustration.

“You know how I feel about Voodoo…I am a Christian….I intend to raise the baby as a Christian…” I said trying to keep my voice firm but respectful. We’d argued over religion in the past but my husband had assured me nothing would ever come of the conversations. She’d never forcefully interfered with his conversion despite verbal objection. Now that she was ill there was little she could do. It was very unlikely her grandson would ever have the opportunity to know her. I did not pity him.

“Pfft…it’s not Voodoo…it’s nothing but a simple protective charm….” She said arms folded across her shrunken frame. She looked as if she might crack a smile but it was only a moment before her features fell again into retirement. “I don’t want to cause you no alarm…but he’s a-coming….” She said her voice nothing more than a ravaged whisper.

“Whose a-coming?” I asked studying the sutures of her loosely drawn skin, as if the folds could be divined sans explanation.

“The baby….” She said the tone in her voice unnerved me even more than her words.

“In three weeks yes…” I said overly enunciating each word in the hope that hers would not recant mine.

“I suspect he’ll be here in the next few days…a weak baby like that…could use a bit of luck…don’t you think?” She asked staring down at my bulbous abdomen her traitorous eyes as black as pitch. I placed my hand protectively over my belly and bolted for the attic.

“Do as I say girl if you want the baby to live….” I felt her voice murmuring in my bones, in the back of my skull like a haunting.