Love Haiku #11
Ho, ho, ho— your laugh
calls me; snow knee-deep, we make
angels on our backs
Love Haiku #11
Ho, ho, ho— your laugh
calls me; snow knee-deep, we make
angels on our backs
Rise and shine! Time to get out your stop watches, exercise your typing fingers, and pick your brains for some quick creativity.
Monday’s One-Minute Fiction challenges you to write a complete micro-fiction piece in, you guessed it, one minute, no more, no less, based on the prompt provided! Of course, you can come back to edit for grammar & spelling, but the story itself must be written in a minute.
Your prompt may be a photo, or a word, or a sentence—whatever inspires me, and hopefully inspires you too.
This month, I’m partnering with Marquessa at Simply Marquessa to bring you #1MinFiction and her challenge, #LyricalFictionFriday. Be sure to stop by her blog this Friday for more fun prompts (and to build an awesome playlist too! 😉 )
Christmas is just a week away! Despite this, a lot of us are feeling very “bah humbug.” Maybe a few flakes will change that? I’m always dreaming of a white Christmas, but this week’s prompt is another favorite Christmas song…
Now it’s time for the rules. I don’t have many, because we all know rules are no fun, but here are the basic logistics for each challenge:
And that’s it! Let’s get to writing, shall we? And…
Ready . . .
Set . . .
You rise and turn your back to me. I so desperately want to see your face, to cradle it in my palms as you lie on top of me, fill me with your love, your gray eyes piercing in the darkness, glimpsing into my soul, watching my insides blossom, but you turn your back to me.
I never knew a man, who wanted nothing more than to make me his wife forever, could in turn, make me feel so dirty.
“This is wrong,” you say. “We should’ve waited.”
But we’ve waited long enough. For six years, I’ve endured hand holding, side-shoulder hugs, pecks on the cheek and forehead, a couple on the mouth if it’s Valentine’s Day, but never enough to make my inner thighs tingle. Always falling just short of making me want you the way I want to want you, need you the way I need to need you. To grasp you between my legs and bloom for you, the way I imagine Rachel did for Jacob after fourteen years . . . of waiting.
“You can’t use that against me,” you say, and the painful look in your eyes is reminiscent of the way the corners of your eyes slanted at a sharp angle when you poured all of your spirit into me, and I am again desperate to touch you, to feel you.
“What about the five love languages?” I say to you. “You remember the sermon. How important it is to know which is your partner’s.” Mine—physical touch.
“That’s for marriage.”
But we are married! Right here, in this bed, we wed in spirit, and you cleaved to me the way a husband should, the way I want you to again. Forget your vow of celibacy and sin for me just this once, and then again. God will forgive us for jumping the broom three weeks too soon. Because that’s what He does. Because His unconditional love is worth more than what you show me tonight.
“Maybe you should go.”
“But, baby, it’s cold outside,” and I wish the roles were reversed, and you were the one singing the song to me as we held each other by the fireplace, only our skin and the flames before us to keep us warm.
But you’re already pulling up your pants and tossing me my sweater, not bothering to help me into my clothes the way you so quickly got me out of them—slowly, savoring what you will surely miss until our scheduled wedding night, if that is still a possibility.
“Call me when you get home,” you say at the door, and a gust of wind blasts me in my face, freezes the tears fresh on my tender cheeks. You won’t walk me to my car. Too tempting to kiss me. You know I won’t settle for the forehead. I’ll clasp your face in my hands, pull your lips down to mine, slip my tongue in between, beckon you toward the garage where I know there’s an empty table, clear of the Christmas decorations you hung the day after Thanksgiving, ready to receive our naked bodies as we consummate our betrothal for a second time tonight.
But I am in my car alone, and the air is taking too long to turn warm, and the steering wheel feels like ice touching my fingers, and you are already safe inside—the door closed and locked—before I back out of the driveway.
Today’s poem was inspired by a series of events that occurred while I was driving my car, which lead to me thinking that I had… killed a butterfly.
Of course, this poem has nothing to do with those events. A very abstract response to the first line (which is actually the title to the poem). As usual, we wrote what came to us, however the previous line inspired us, letting our muses (possibly the resurrected butterfly?) take us wherever the wind blew. So interpret this poem however you like, and I hope you enjoy!
Scattered in disarray
On abandoned tree leaves
Early this season
On a cloud
Words that never
Passed my lips
Reached your ears
In the breezy chill
cold. And I burrow
In the earth
With those who
If I dig deeper
Will I just burrow
Further into the earth
Or will I circle round
And find myself in the skies
I find myself
I am kept warm
By thoughts unspoken
Like the hungry caterpillar
who ate himself into a shell
and emerged a butterfly
in search of death and life,
—Nortina & Amina ❤
Love Haiku #10
A chill in the air
reminds me of your breath—iced
mint. Froze my lips numb.
It’s not even cold outside. The weatherman expects record-breaking highs Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with temperatures around 70 degrees, maybe even warmer.
The only precipitation we’ve had this winter is rain. I hum to the pitter-patter of raindrops. I twirl my umbrella in my hands, imagine it looks like a spinning dreidel from above. Water droplets slip off the edge and fall to the warm sidewalk. Steam rises from the concrete as the rain cools it, creating a thick fog.
Through the heavy mist I see the shadow of a man. I stare at his feet as he approaches me, his movement swirling the waves of gray. The heels of his boots clink on the sidewalk but make no sound. He extends his hand, touches my shoulder. Goose bumps spread along my arms, beaded like braille. He reads my arousal, grazing his fingertips down to my wrist, sending a chill throughout my body.
“Oooh, Jack,” I say, “you always know how to make it feel like December.”
word count: 167
This piece is a combination of Day 22 of 31 Days of Holiday Hooligans (I use the term hooligan loosely for this story) & Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-175 using the provided photo prompt as inspiration).
“Do you wanna build a snowman?” Georgina sang, knocking softly on her sister’s bedroom door.
“I curse the Christmas Mama bought you that stupid movie!” Regina’s muffled voice answered.
“It’s only the best movie ever!”
“I can think of ten movies that are way better.”
The door suddenly swung open, and Georgina fell forward, meeting her chin with Regina’s big toe. Regina kicked up her foot and hobbled backward to her bed. “I swear you have the hardest head of the human race!” she said, caressing her toe.
“C’mon.” Georgina jumped in place. “I already measured six inches. That’s enough, right?” She pulled a plastic ruler from her polka dot rubber boot. The snow had since melted and all that remained on the bottom half of the ruler were droplets of water.
“You know, for that movie to be all about girl power, why is it that they still build a snowman?” Regina scratch her chin. She raised one eyebrow and smirked towards the ceiling as the idea reigned down on her head like a dusting of snow. “Why not a snow woman?”
“But how would we make it look like a girl?”
Regina threw on her boots and coat. “Mama still asleep?” she asked over her shoulder as she searched her drawer for her gloves buried under socks missing their other halves.
“Where’s that ugly wig she’s always wearing?” She stuffed her hands into the wool gloves, turned and pushed the drawer closed with her hip.
“It’s on the knob in the shower. She washed it last night.”
“Good we’ll put the wig on it.”
“On the snowman?”
Regina bent down and put both hands on her sisters shoulders. “Snow woman.”
“Ahh!” Georgina said, mouth agape. “And we’ll name her Olfina!” Georgina gave Regina a wide, obnoxious wink.
“Sure, whatever. Go get the wig. I’ll meet you outside.” Georgina dashed for the bathroom. When she disappeared around the corner, Regina mumbled under her breath, “Still a stupid movie.”
Day 17 of 31 Days of Holiday Hooligans
Snowflakes trickle down window pane.
She twists bulbs tightly,
lights up tree in green, red and blue,
breaks apart earth and sky blanketed
in white. She sips hot apple cider
from mug, steps onto porch,
watches him shovel the walkway.
Ice cold ball of cotton hurls for her head,
disintegrates into powdered water droplets
when met with mug. Return fire not as friendly,
metal shovel shatters porcelain—
scalding cider splashes skin.
Day 16 of 31 Days of Holiday Hooligans
She built a snowman
in the meadow, dressed him—wool
scarf, knitted sweater—
shivering. He offered pipe
between twig fingers
to heat numbing limbs. She kissed
coal lips. Lay naked
in hypothermic embrace
under pelting ice.
Day 9 of… technically not a Holiday Hooligan, but when you’re talking about having sex with a snowman…
Just last week, this trail was buried under seven inches of snow. As if August wasn’t two months ago, and Fall was only a distant memory. That’s one thing you’ve got to love about living in the Piedmont area of North Carolina. You can experience all four seasons in one week. Tomorrow, it’s forecast to get up to 80 degrees. Our poor trees will be so confused. They’ll think they’ve shed their leaves too soon.
I jog in place to read the sign post. The Nathanael Greene memorial is just ahead. Usually that signifies I’ve run a mile, but since Guilford Courthouse National Military Park was closed all last week—we tend to shut down everything even at the sight of a flurry—I decide to run another lap. That dusting they’re calling for next Tuesday may turn into a blizzard. Of course, anything here is considered a blizzard.
We Carolina folks just ain’t used to all this snow.
word count: 159
Looking at this week’s photo, I wanted to focus more so on setting than developing an actual story. I hope that’s alright.
This is part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, where you write a story in 100-150 (give or take 25) using the provided photo prompt. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.