Fawn’s Nightingale

Ellen Rogers Photography

 

Fawn’s Nightingale
100 Words Only

Each new dawn brings forth beauty’s naïve doe-eyed uncertainty, with slightly parted lips, shallow breath exhales to the clock’s tick. Her moon does its duty, arching across the sky, far behind the good sun. Frustration follows temptation towards the cobblestones of twilight, before reaching the pause of midnight. There’s a certain ripeness and longing contained within the dark, where anything and everything is possible. While all is lulled by sleep’s stagnation, beauty’s uncertainty grows restless. No longer a keepsake, she envisions the once unattainable in the distance, across a field of thorns, her brave heart dares to barefoot the crossing.

 

“I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.”
― Anne Sexton

Groove Armada – “
Think Twice”                                                                         Liminal

Contained

Ellen Rogers Photography

 

Contained
100 Words Only

My mind is an abstract masterpiece of the devious and dubious, a traitorous trickster, jealous jester, and callous handed croupier, chasing lethal fumes of ammonia and bleach: afterthoughts, into a man-made match lit tunnel known as, Disaster, meeting tomorrow’s runaway bullet train, The Lullaby, head on, knocking me into the questionably sane side of today, while yesterday’s memories shake violently, their cries foreshadow the harvest of my very presence and yet to be future: grinding out of control on slippery tracks, there’s no escape from this dimness, confined, caged against my will, I’m at the mercy of my captor: myself.

 

“What fresh hell is this?”
― Dorothy Parker, The Portable Dorothy Parker


Yaël Naïm – “
Toxic

                                                                                             Scorched

In The Mourning

Photographer Sally Mann

 

In The Mourning
100 Words Only

Death did its part, shock and denial offered their condolences: time, it passes too.  Beneath a star-spangled ceiling, counting beliefs and misfortunes as sheep, waiting for sleep to take hold, my mind flashes neon forget-me-nots, signs of Elvis and vows taken.  Taken they were, in all but a moment, time enough to empty the chamber.  The chips, they did fall — sound with the jingle-jangle of spent shell casings.  Remnants of carnations linger sickening-sweet, like cotton candy on sticky fingers in the summer’s heat. Memory’s ghost hugs my curves like a fitted sheet, a second skin, while whispering soft-nothings: promises made.

 

“If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Tango With Lions – “
In a Bar

                                                                      Or Flames

Marrow’s Mediocrity

Photographer — Francesca Woodman

 

Marrow’s Mediocrity
100 Words Only

Having met life’s fate in the winter of my youth, I’ve lived my passions in pursuit of the truth. Stigma and fear jailed my beliefs, keeping my love under lock and key, found near starvation in rags of hand-me-downs, sucking on pebbles to silence the hunger, blocking the ritual: speaking in tongues. Necromancy of the resurrection, all memories have since fallen away, swirling as leaves on a tempestuous day. Vacant lots of strange-strangers: the half-past dead, unknowing stand-ins for what’s ahead. While waiting for the Four Winds to carry me away, I’m wondering — what’s the weight of a human soul?

 

“I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.”
― René Descartes

Hindi Zahra – “
Don’t Forget