artwork by Joseph Lorusso
What an exquisite creature!
My brain; once quite useful,
now just quivering jelly.
How is it even possible
to forget how to converse?
Numerous witty remarks
remain dormant on my tongue.
Your sensual siren song
is interwoven seamlessly
into every utterance.
So transfixed on your lips
words fade into nothingness.
Lustful thoughts rapidly consume me;
dream kisses of sweet ambrosia.
The Daily Prompt asks: “Sure, you turned out pretty good, but is there anything you wish had been different about your childhood? If you have kids, is there anything you wish were different for them?”
There is so much I could say about my childhood but I don’t want this turning into a novel. I think the strangest thing about my childhood is that I don’t remember all that much about it. I do have some memories but most of them are from the time I hit ten or so. I’ve had psychiatrists tell me this may be due to trauma. It is a possibility. Most of my earliest memories are disturbing to me.
The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman is the chilling tale of a doctor’s wife being driven mad. The tale is set during an era when conditions like depression were treated with extended periods of bed rest and a pronounced lack of stimulating activities. It’s not hard to fathom how this could have caused many people to fall into a state of psychosis. The story reads as journal entries that become progressively disturbing. This short story is highly recommended for those who like a darker, moody, creepy tale.
English: American feminist poet and writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This 100 word story is a continuation of The Escape – Friday Fictioneers. If you want a better idea of what’s going on in this story, I suggest you read that first.
Eric was startled from his slumber thanks to someone pounding on the door to his suite. With a yawn he threw on the silk robe he had taken from a naive tourist. He didn’t normally steal from his victims but it was of his refined taste and he’d hate to see it go to waste.
He opened the door but no one was there, just a letter at his feet. He caught the faint trace of a familiar scent as he bent down to pick up the envelope. It couldn’t be. Eric swallowed hard when he saw the handwriting. Elle?!
You granted your callous mistress the right to infiltrate our lives. My childhood memories are defiled by her meddlesome intrusion. You became her marionette, her absurd little dancing fool. I watched you; a once proud, mountain of a man, reduced to a lowly pebble.
You gave all you possessed in life to appease her constant hunger. We were merely afforded the scraps she left of your love, attention, and time. I can remember the contempt my mother endured every day for what you deemed an unforgivable sin: She chose to keep fighting for you.
You didn’t just defeat her once, that would have been too merciful. You subdued her inner essence, strangling it into submission. I witnessed my mother dwindle into a thin, crumbling husk while you roamed in blissful freedom, never facing the aftermath.