Sonia looked out over the desolation the forest fire had caused. Black charred ruins were everywhere. Homes were destroyed. Forests wiped out. A sickly smell lifted from the misery filling her nostrils in ways she would not easily forget.
She rolled up her hose in the falling rain, glad that she was able to be of some use to halt the tragedy.
“Won’t you look at that?” she said with mild surprise as a chipmunk stopped his travels on her hose. “I hope you can find some food my good friend,” she said as she watched him dart quickly away.
Wonderful story, Bill! The chipmunk pausing on the hose right as she’s coiling it up gives the whole scene a nice small breath of life against the charred ruins. Life persists!
I just hate it when something on me falls off, an ear, finger, or whatever. Thank God I still have my penis--wait, belay that. Damn! Then, that whole spontaneous combustion thing--I really hate that. And my infections! Exploding purulent vesicles that decide to exude violently when I'm on stage receiving my Lifetime Bereavement Award--I really hate that, too. All of the assassination attempts--with bullets, knives, pushes, and so on--I hate those, too. And being crushed? Don't even ge me started. All these things I hate. They're miserable. Oh? Sorry. Yes, I'd like fries with that.
Disenchantment with your writing path. Catastrophic winter weather event. A terrifying car crash. Front end damage to a prized muscle car. Debilitating injuries. A treasured manuscript destroyed. Forced captivity. Suffering through involuntary drugging. A murder. Being compelled to write with a gun to your head. Outside your preferred genre! An excruciating hobbling. Life or death hand to hand combat. Becoming a killer yourself. Lingering physical and emotional scars.
You call that misery, Mr. King?
Ha. It’s anything but.
The takeaway from all of this carnage for a typical Substack fiction writer?
Ha! Brilliant, Scott! The pivot at the end is great, that wide swing from total Misery-plot carnage to pure delighted Substack-writer logic is genuinely funny!
Nicely done, Theresa! That last word, “Selah” does give this a hymn-like gravity. Also, what a great line this is: To the pits of a haunted mirth. Thank you for this poem.
A Glimmer In The Misery
Sonia looked out over the desolation the forest fire had caused. Black charred ruins were everywhere. Homes were destroyed. Forests wiped out. A sickly smell lifted from the misery filling her nostrils in ways she would not easily forget.
She rolled up her hose in the falling rain, glad that she was able to be of some use to halt the tragedy.
“Won’t you look at that?” she said with mild surprise as a chipmunk stopped his travels on her hose. “I hope you can find some food my good friend,” she said as she watched him dart quickly away.
Wonderful story, Bill! The chipmunk pausing on the hose right as she’s coiling it up gives the whole scene a nice small breath of life against the charred ruins. Life persists!
Thank you. That little part was an afterthought! I like when those moments appear.
PROMPT: "Misery," for 100-word wonders.
Title: Second Window, please.
I just hate it when something on me falls off, an ear, finger, or whatever. Thank God I still have my penis--wait, belay that. Damn! Then, that whole spontaneous combustion thing--I really hate that. And my infections! Exploding purulent vesicles that decide to exude violently when I'm on stage receiving my Lifetime Bereavement Award--I really hate that, too. All of the assassination attempts--with bullets, knives, pushes, and so on--I hate those, too. And being crushed? Don't even ge me started. All these things I hate. They're miserable. Oh? Sorry. Yes, I'd like fries with that.
Gosh, Gerard! This is wonderfully unhinged, the leap from body horror to “yes, I’d like fries with that” is perfect!
Glass Half Full
Disenchantment with your writing path. Catastrophic winter weather event. A terrifying car crash. Front end damage to a prized muscle car. Debilitating injuries. A treasured manuscript destroyed. Forced captivity. Suffering through involuntary drugging. A murder. Being compelled to write with a gun to your head. Outside your preferred genre! An excruciating hobbling. Life or death hand to hand combat. Becoming a killer yourself. Lingering physical and emotional scars.
You call that misery, Mr. King?
Ha. It’s anything but.
The takeaway from all of this carnage for a typical Substack fiction writer?
“You’re telling me I have a number one fan?!”
Ha! Brilliant, Scott! The pivot at the end is great, that wide swing from total Misery-plot carnage to pure delighted Substack-writer logic is genuinely funny!
Thank you!😎
Love it, Caro. Noir with a heart.
Thank you, Scott!
Excellent. A crook with a heart!
Thank you, Barrie!
Hilarious, Caro! Loved it!
Thank you, D!
Misery
When circumstances conspire
To bring your soul to the fire,
But you disagree
And say, "Don't bother me "
Who are you to offend God's plan?
You deserve what you cannot stand
Because a proud spirit sends you to hell
So be glad when your life has fell
To the pits of a haunted mirth
Yet you still inhabit earth
So bless your misery
And learn a sweeter way to be
For we are God's children while here
Distractions can be so mere
The lesson is to grow our souls
Before we die after growing old
God bless those in misery. Selah !
Thank you , Caro !
Nicely done, Theresa! That last word, “Selah” does give this a hymn-like gravity. Also, what a great line this is: To the pits of a haunted mirth. Thank you for this poem.
Thank you , Caro for the opportunity. I enjoy prompts !
Excellent story, Caro!