She grabbed the box of Newport lights, and panties that were “in between” dry from the sun off the line behind the back porch.
She packed like a woman with no history.grabbed her only heirloom-- the CD player given to her by her brother, before he had killed Father. "Take dis and put it on yo’ ears. I’ll be back”. She had waited. Rockin’ back and fro to the Michael Jackson tunes that could tell you of innocence that even Michael Jackson, she was sure didn’t know about. She rocked until she soiled herself.
Until she couldn’t hold her pee any longer.
The last song on the disc was Heartbreak Hotel. She tiptoed down the hall, smelling the thickness of the blood before she saw it. It made ripples in the overused parts of the carpet creating a river from one end of the wall to the other. Walking backward, she went back to the room, climbed out the window calling out for her brother in a stern but soft voice. When she heard no reply, she began to run down the dirt road into the cornstalks with her shoes in her hands.
Memories of old chicken grease and Vaseline slathered in her insides when he couldn’t find a condom clapsed her mind.
She had $200. It wouldn’t take her far, but it would take her beyond watermelon patches, big hands and the cool dirt that swallowed her shame and guilt.She looked around nervously as if Father’s ghost would appear and drag her by her ponytail all the way back to the white chipped painted house with the green porch swinging innnocently.But there was nothing.
Nothing except silhouettes of trees and power lines mixed with the last smell of honeysuckle in the darkness.
kimabe 2006
if you didn't define yourself for yourself you'd be crunched into other peoples fantasies of you an eaten alive.
you killin em!!!! DAMN!!!! this read like the opening to a novel and I WANT MORE!!!!!! shit i dont think you've ever written anything that didnt blow e away.... blessed to read you mami... be safe... -j
the last five paragraphs (stanzas?) were the strongest to me. that's where the language got provactive and interesting. i thought the beginning could be cut, especially since it's such a short piece and you want to kinda punch the reader in the face.
gorgeous lines like "Nothing except silhouettes of trees and power lines mixed with the last smell of honeysuckle in the darkness," give the feeling of innocence lost and danger much more effectively than the stumbling bit with michael jackson.
She grabbed the box of Newport lights, and panties that were “in between” dry from the sun off the line behind the back porch.
She packed like a woman with no history.grabbed her only heirloom-- the CD player given to her by her brother, before he had killed Father. "Take dis and put it on yo’ ears. I’ll be back”. She had waited. Rockin’ back and fro to the Michael Jackson tunes that could tell you of innocence that even Michael Jackson, she was sure didn’t know about. She rocked until she soiled herself.
Until she couldn’t hold her pee any longer.
The last song on the disc was Heartbreak Hotel. She tiptoed down the hall, smelling the thickness of the blood before she saw it. It made ripples in the overused parts of the carpet creating a river from one end of the wall to the other.
*nods* but that's quite often with your work, tho. *smiles* Glad to see you back at it...
9. "RE: flash fiction" In response to Reply # 0 Sat Jul-01-06 12:36 AM by ms mimi diva
You know, I often wonder if I am somehow uncultured, or unchurched by the literatie because I still read books the way I did when I was five. If I open it, and don't like the writing style, I have a hard time justifying reading it. Therefore, despite my woefully inept grasp of the complexities of jewels like War and Peace, I stopped reading it because the language was like a knife to the ear.
Your writing grabs people, and despite the overwhelming emphasis on writing as literary form, writing as a discipline, writing as a technique, post modernism,--- writing is first, and art.
You've got the voice nailed, and your writing is not only literature (sayin' something) but art (saying something beautiful).
http://worthwatering.blogspot.com Can it be I stayed away too long?/ Did I leave your mind when I was gone?/ It's not my thing trying to get back/ But this time let me tell you where I'm at-- Jackson Five
>She grabbed the box of Newport lights, and panties that were >“in between” dry from the sun off the line behind the back >porch. > >She packed like a woman with no history.grabbed her only >heirloom-- the CD player given to her by her brother, before >he had killed Father. "Take dis and put it on yo’ ears. I’ll >be back”. She had waited. Rockin’ back and fro to the Michael >Jackson tunes that could tell you of innocence that even >Michael Jackson, she was sure didn’t know about. She rocked >until she soiled herself. > >Until she couldn’t hold her pee any longer. > >The last song on the disc was Heartbreak Hotel. She tiptoed >down the hall, smelling the thickness of the blood before she >saw it. It made ripples in the overused parts of the carpet >creating a river from one end of the wall to the other. >Walking backward, she went back to the room, climbed out the >window calling out for her brother in a stern but soft voice. >When she heard no reply, she began to run down the dirt road >into the cornstalks with her shoes in her hands. > >Memories of old chicken grease and Vaseline slathered in her >insides when he couldn’t find a condom clapsed her mind. > >She had $200. It wouldn’t take her far, but it would take her >beyond watermelon patches, big hands and the cool dirt that >swallowed her shame and guilt.She looked around nervously as >if Father’s ghost would appear and drag her by her ponytail >all the way back to the white chipped painted house with the >green porch swinging innnocently.But there was nothing. > > >Nothing except silhouettes of trees and power lines mixed with >the last smell of honeysuckle in the darkness. > > > >kimabe 2006
creative energy sometimes is left wanting to be noticed in your case it seems there can never be enough attention given you grab readers and capture them in a grip like a vice only thing no one wants to be let go so... write sum mo'
"keep pennin till the earth birth's your rightful seed then nurture it wit more ink..." ASIEM "Kuun fiyah Kuun" Quran (Be and it is) " A writer takes his pen to write the words again that all in love is fair" Stevie Wonder
15. "So ... Was there? ..." In response to Reply # 0
A revision?
>you know they'll be a revision(lol)...big ups to ya...k
I'm just askin' cuz I obviously missed this when it was originally posted -- (I wasn't around during the Summer)
Reading ^this^ gave me chills & goosebumps!
That means it's good -- DAMN GOOD! --
A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence -- I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥
16. "RE: So ... Was there? ..." In response to Reply # 15
no revision...that's gio's territory(lol)...u know how he do it (where gio at anyway?)...me...i let ride out my head like wind on the back of my naps in january...can you dig that .....thanks for digesting it ...miss k
if you didn't define yourself for yourself you'd be crunched into other peoples fantasies of you an eaten alive.
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.....thanks for digesting it ...miss k