Sunday Scribblings: The Rest of the Story

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is the rest of the story.

He turned around to take another look. The body laid still in the back seat. He turned to the road ahead, water spewing from the mouth of Hell. The blades were turned on full blast. He hadn't expected such a violent storm, but there was no time to spare on hesitation. A soiled Earth would feed on flesh, whole, tonight.

The road had taken him far out of town. He would reach the farmhouse soon, where a sodden field waiting to ready itself for Spring, soaked. His eyes drifted towards the man more so than the road. Laying at rest, his chest settled.

He pulled over to the side of the road, angling the car perpendicular to the field. The rain pouring on his thoughts. His plan was clean and clear so far. At this point, he would feed the mouth.

He moved the hair out of his eye, sighing with relief, the blessed rain had washed the crime out of his clothes. He opened the truck and secured a shovel under his arm. He teetered the body out of the car, sludging though the softened earth. He kept his cool, knowing that the mouth would be ready, filling with water.

The hole was easy to find. He smiled at the Stygian night. Soon enough, his debt would be payed forever. He spoke aloud, asking the mouth if it was hungry yet, mocking its hold. The listless body waiting while he deepened the hole. He heard a mutter. He assured himself that it was a hunger groan, the mouth would suffer no longer.

He pulled the body over his shoulder, stumbling to the edge of the hole. The weight of the man had doubled, his body covered in scorched holes. He beckoned the River of Styx hoping it would quickly devour his burden. He heard another moan. The slightest bit of warmth panting against his neck. This couldn't be. He had made sure that this wouldn't be. He throw the body in. Because it couldn't be.

He grabbed the shovel, sending clumps of mud into the hole as it continued to fill with water. The man from the backseat of the car swayed slightly in the slush, with eyes opened. He was sure that the mouth would know. He worked ferociously through his fear. Mud and water covered the man. The body, which was filled with life howled back at him. He covered the hole.

The mouth would swallow soon and it would know. He throw the shovel on top and scrambled through the field to his car. He had heard the moan and watched the eyes open. He feed the mouth a living soul. He sat against the wheel of the car, knowing that the mouth would soon ask for more.

Happy Spring Solstice!

A scattering of Spring.

It's earliest show . 

After a dizzy spell of snow. 

Sunday Scribblings: Honest

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is honest.

St. Patrick's Day has always added a bit of charm to our home. The children who dally and play in this place believe that the devilish little man will find his way to them to offer a surprise. For us, it is a sort of preparation for Spring Solstice, where we celebrate with seeds rather than eggs. A sprig of life, fertility, and consciousness. The earthly flow. Rebirth of a hopeful cycle.

This is when we search for the tinniest fields of clover and create a seat for him to rest in, with hopes that he will visit us. The children here (the older three most conscious, the little two still dreamy in their days where they dance in dulcet air) know that the Leprechaun man does not always arrive in the most gentle way. For the Irish, he is of the nasty bunch. Not as vicious as the headless of the Otherworld, the ones who whisk around on horses shouting the names of mortals who will die. Yet, this mischievous little creature evokes suspicion of trust. For this reason the children work hard at making his seat most comfortable.

Their wish is quite simple. They appreciate the clover cookies glittered in emerald colored sugar and the wee bits of chocolate that he leaves behind. Unlike the tooth-fairy, they do not understand what he takes(Dad and I have not added that part in yet. Maybe it will be part of the tradition next year. Knowing Dad, he will venture to make it a bit creepy).

This year the little fella did not come. The clover was buried under powder. A St. Paddy's Day snow. A light whisper away from Spring and Father Winter will not let go. The children believe that the Leprechaun lost his way.

Honestly, Mother neglected to come up with much to offer this year.

Actually, I sat around waiting for one of the children to break his fever. He laid in bed all day, dead asleep, pausing only to ask for water. And that lucky Irish evening when Dad and I sat around believing that we had brought no such wonder into the day, the oldest child woke in a flushed fever, spewing his supper.


This St. Patrick's Day the children were frenzied and weary, the clover drowned in snow, and Dad and I did nothing more than toast a reckless cup of Guinness(watching Boondock Saints), and the leaflet man did not show.

When we woke the next morning, delightfully so, we realized that he most certainly had granted a day of treasure and magic.

Sunday Scribblings: Suspended Reality

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is suspended reality.


I drove home to find the house I once lived in. The windows were covered and the paint was no longer yellow. The same cloud that I wished away years ago still hung over our den. I stood under it's loom, at the foot of the porch where I welcomed myself home.

My mother kept sweeping where my youngest brother continued to make a mess. She was only a bit over forty but already completely grey. My oldest sister won't be home. She had already spent the morning swearing at my mother when asked to be at church early this morning. In a journal she had decided that she was no longer their daughter and anyway, there were plenty of dirty old men in town with lecherous inclinations, hungry for youthful flesh.

It was Sunday and my daddy would be home. I climbed onto the porch, slipping through my mother, and found a crack in between the boards. Inside, my daddy lay resting. His belly full and his heart beating slowly. The corners of his mouth hissing miniature bubbles, the pillow underneath his head, freshly soiled.

When he woke he would find my mother. He would take what he wanted from her, leaving her blue. My mother was not safe, not even on a Sunday.

I didn't want to stick around and see, now that I didn't have to. I hurried past my brother, who was still pouring out mounds of clay onto our cencrete porch. I knew that he couldn't see me.

I made my way past our old water well, an empty stomach feeding on our faults, to the other end of the house. More than anything, I wanted to find myself.

I crossed over an old creek bridge and followed the watercourse. My two older brothers sat along one edge. They were identical, a copy of each other. I squeezed myself in between them, wanting to touch their burst skin, breathing in their dusty smell. They continued to pass a handmade cigarette back and forth, completely relaxed, unleashing random inner thoughts. I walked away without disturbing them, leaving them in their cloud. They did nothing to stop daddy, never picking up mother.

I found myself sitting in a circle. A ring of flowers. My skirt was dirty and my skin was young. I wasn't alone. I sat amongst a ring of friends, all of who, only I could see.

I watched myself serve these creatures tea. I was dainty and clever. I mesmerized my friends with heroic stories of endless triumph and enduring love. I never spoke of my sister, washing her soul away every night, nor my brothers, bored and alone lost within one another.

I watched myself inside of this circle, my own secret sorority, where I was able to forget about my mother, her complacency which killed us all. Inside of this loop my smiles were true, allowing my daddy and his wretched friends to became empty and unreal.

Sunday Scribblings:Search

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is search.

They dance around the trees as they look for pretty things.
They have been told to walk on ballerina toes.
Sometimes, the giddy ones, trudge and stomp,
crushing the spines of little ones who live below their feet.

A pursuit which ends, for the brightest of children,
in their share of treasure;
the people of the Otherworld are known to leave lavish gifts.
The cauldron of plenty, the wand of intelligence,
the tree of knowledge.
What child would not
search for truth?

They are said to be of the early tribes,
the ones that were banished and bared,
from the northwestern coast,
a cluster of British Isles that wanted them off.

The ones that make their way from India are intoxicated in dance.
Their rite is fertile, in water and somewhere in sand.

From the caves of Ithaca,
other friends descend.
Where they are given two gates, pleasant and obscure.
Since darkness is by no means delight,
they make their escape through barrows and mounds.

Needless to say, some find us in an angry way.
The children know never to swim on the fifth of March,
for the festival of river nymphs and the winged ones in water
pose a harrowing thrill,
not only after dark.

For the children who believe,
the ones that have rose-colored dreams,
the wee folk in their woody dells are nothing but good.

They are made of silk and snow,
travelling on wrinkled leaves.
Tiny and winged,
flying in Spring.
These immortal lovers,
dressed in gold and green.

On the farthest land westward,
the season is ripe. The playgrounds are empty of dew.
Our children are ready to hunt.
Pixies or pirates.
Fay or Puck.

Fallen angles, suspended in flight.
Condemned to remain just as they were,
hanging in thin air.
Others left under a layer of Earth.
And various ones,
floating
a hallow whisper between sunlight and dust.