Dad had his nose in his phone. It was work of course, ostensibly, but any tracker would show he consumed a liberal dose of ESPN not to mention the gyrating instagram models. Mom was on the face of it more engaged but mostly tending to the basket of snakes hissing and eating their own tails inside her head. They had not left the child; in fact, she was never out of eyesight. But she was abandoned in every sense, as much as if they had dropped her in a basket with a note at the back door to the firehouse.
Really enjoyed yours, Caro … I love the life you imbued with in the house (especially its yearning).
Let It Go
He felt it was clumsy. More ‘tell’ than ‘show’. What had gone wrong? He’d woken one morning with a storyline as vivid as the ostentatious ink folk laughed at, his writer’s affectation. Mother, his greatest fan, said the colour was eccentric. Night after night he poured every ounce of himself into the manuscript, thousands of tiny letters bleeding turquoise onto the pages. As she read it, he gnawed at bloodied fingers, waiting, but her silence screamed at him. One hundred words, that’s all they’d asked for. The deadline loomed but he had … nothing. “It’s just not very good, son”.
The baby was left on the church steps wrapped in a blanket against the rain. Its cries of anguish echoed against the cold stone walls of the church, bringing an old nun to its door.
Her lined face peered down, pale blue eyes falling upon the baby. The nun shook her head. Another foundling left on the steps, forgotten, unloved, and abandoned.
Probably a young unmarred mother who was tempted by the sins of the flesh and got caught out she mused sadly.
The mother looked at the now closed door and wept, her tears mixing with the falling rain.
Excellent as usual. Here is what I did.
Hide in Plain Sight
Dad had his nose in his phone. It was work of course, ostensibly, but any tracker would show he consumed a liberal dose of ESPN not to mention the gyrating instagram models. Mom was on the face of it more engaged but mostly tending to the basket of snakes hissing and eating their own tails inside her head. They had not left the child; in fact, she was never out of eyesight. But she was abandoned in every sense, as much as if they had dropped her in a basket with a note at the back door to the firehouse.
Good one! This is a horror story that very effectively speaks about emotional abandonment.
Thx felt like going heavy on this one
In the Glow of Streetlamps
____
The city spits us out, drunk on rain and sweat,
her sequins glint like shattered teeth,
a grin cracked wide beneath her witch’s hat,
as if daring me to touch the sharp edges.
Moonlight claws its way down her face,
and I’m already lost.
.
She asks for a cigarette,
her fingers cold, sliding against mine.
We crouch under a streetlamp, its light sick and low,
her lips pull the flame,
and the night shivers around us, damp and broken.
.
We walk in abandon,
heels clicking like confessions.
She kisses me—
bruising, raw—
rain, smoke,
and something wild beneath it all.
Ooh! Love this! I love the juxtaposition of cold fingers and the warmth of a shared cigarette, freedom (abandon) entwined with vulnerability.
Thank you!
Really enjoyed yours, Caro … I love the life you imbued with in the house (especially its yearning).
Let It Go
He felt it was clumsy. More ‘tell’ than ‘show’. What had gone wrong? He’d woken one morning with a storyline as vivid as the ostentatious ink folk laughed at, his writer’s affectation. Mother, his greatest fan, said the colour was eccentric. Night after night he poured every ounce of himself into the manuscript, thousands of tiny letters bleeding turquoise onto the pages. As she read it, he gnawed at bloodied fingers, waiting, but her silence screamed at him. One hundred words, that’s all they’d asked for. The deadline loomed but he had … nothing. “It’s just not very good, son”.
Thanks, Barrie! Glad you enjoyed it.
Ah, yes. Mother! Anxiety oozes from this story. You did such a good job. Also, it reminds me of Psycho.
Ah, yes … it is quite dark in the way the mother cuts him off so coldly. Thank you for reading it.
The Foundling
The baby was left on the church steps wrapped in a blanket against the rain. Its cries of anguish echoed against the cold stone walls of the church, bringing an old nun to its door.
Her lined face peered down, pale blue eyes falling upon the baby. The nun shook her head. Another foundling left on the steps, forgotten, unloved, and abandoned.
Probably a young unmarred mother who was tempted by the sins of the flesh and got caught out she mused sadly.
The mother looked at the now closed door and wept, her tears mixing with the falling rain.
Oh, man! This is so sad and so real! Some women have to make tough choices. Thank you, Jason, for the reminder and all you conveyed in 100 words.
Thanks