FIFTY WORD STORY – Let Me Be You

Let me be you. Let me square my shoulders as you do yours, draw back my locks with the strength of your neck. Let me smile with your white teeth, kiss with your red lips, speak with your hot tongue. And let me bleed with the warmth of your heart.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – A Dog in the Rain

The rain trickled down the building onto an upturned tin bucket. The sound attracted a shivering dog out from his meager protection: a patch of space in the corner beneath the overhang, hidden from the howling wind. He took a tentative taste from the top, then hobbled back to safety.

——

 

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DREAMS. IN. SPACE.

Last night I fell into a dream that started at an intergalactic academy. The headmaster, a short, plump woman with a deep red hair, was dogged about the need for utter obedience in her subjects. She walked us through the school to demonstrate the success this obedience had gained her—highlighting slave labor that she had used to turn a profit for her and the rest of the administration.

Being the big mouth I am, I said something to her about the horrible conditions this meant for the poor students, but when I did, she rounded on me in anger. She called security, and I had to high tail it back to my space shuttle. I made it back, and the flight crew took off. We thought it was exceptionally strange when they didn’t chase us. Two hours passed, and then we suddenly heard a tapping sound outside the ship. Din-din din-din. It was eerie. Then it repeated. Over and over and over, and we realized that whatever was out there was making to come in. We began to throw on our spacesuits. I had nearly gotten mine on when the whole roof of the shuttle burst open, and we flew out into the dead of space. I had just enough time to get a last gasp of air before we entered the cold nothingness.

The icy world on my face stung, and the tears that flowed from my eyes froze before they had journeyed far. It wasn’t before long that my lungs were pounding and the fluid in my eyes began to freeze. In front of me was the mirror from the space shuttle, and I saw my reflection—blue in the face, with my hair flying out in all directions. I thought I was going to die. Then from behind me, the strangest thing happened. A vulture, with massive black wings, descended into the plain of view to land on my shoulders. They’ve come for me. I thought, though I couldn’t really say who “they” were. The vulture placed a clawed foot over my mouth, and suddenly I could breathe. Yet it didn’t help my vision, and the water in my eyes ran cold until everything was just an icy plane, followed swiftly by blackness.

 

So I don’t know what this dream means. In the moment, I thought the vulture was from the academy, come to kill me, but then it magically saved me. Perhaps if I hadn’t woken up in real life, my dream self would have woken up as a slave to the academy. Or maybe not. I know my disdainful reaction to the sight of slavery was well in my character. Perhaps it as something to do with the nature of unbalance within the school system—though who can say for sure. Anyways, those are just my thoughts. Let me know what you think! Do you have any strange dreams like that? Tell me about them in the comments!

 

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ESCAPING THE LAUNDROMAT

I was told that everything could be interesting if you tried hard enough. My father would tell me that, out in the garage in the summer heat, with a fan running on high, blowing hot air in my face. I was something I never really understood until I was older; when the world started to become something that I could make choices in, rather than follow blindly.

Those are exactly the words that floated through my head as the elevator ticked from floor two to floor three. The white light, which had faded to a dusty yellow over the years, flashed “3” on arrival, and the quick accompanying Ding-ding noted that I should prepare to depart. The doors slid open, slowly, like sludge through a pipe. It was early on the weekend—before most people get up. That’s the best time to go; you’ll be able to find an open washer.

That morning I had gotten up extra early. Work had called me late the night before to ask me to cover a shift, and my uniform was still dirty. Ruined my Saturday, but work was money, and money was tight. So early, that the sun was still coming up when I walked in the door. I loaded my cloths into the washer, put the detergent in, set the water temperature, and hit “start.” Suddenly I had forty minutes to burn. And I had forgotten my book.

So what was I to do, dad? What to do what to do what to do what to—Ding-ding. The elevator clicked open again, and a little old women came out. She hunched over was pushing a square cart full of cloths. She was so ancient, it looked like she was sinking into the ground in front of me. But she shuffled by, wheels squeaking loudly.

And I wondered about her. When was she born? What did she do as a child? The little spiral of a story unwound in my head like an old toy from my childhood. The little girl, walking down an empty street, that slowly filled with the buzz of cars. Her mother was dead, and her father was still out from a night of gambling and drinking, but she—she was fine. Every few steps she broke into a happy skip. Then the scene morphed away, and suddenly I saw a beautiful young woman. Her black hair twisted lightly down her backside. She was walking again, this time with a man at her arm. They were dressed in elaborate outfits that denoted the importance of them, yet for all they had, her eyes held a sense of fear in them.

Again, I watched as her hair was peppered with streaks of grey, and her warm eyes glazed over. A barrel of caramel colored children ran around her ankles, with the same glee she had been filled with not five minutes before. Almost as if they had sucked the life out of her. Of course, it must have been the fifties then. So it would have been just her. Men of such “importance” didn’t stick with black women at that time.

And as my mind found her in the elevator, struggling to push that cart of clothes, I realized my own clothes had finished washing and she was staring back at me, as if to tell me it was my turn to tell my own story. And suddenly, even the Laundromat didn’t seem quite such a boring place.

——

 

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MY BRAND NEW TWITTER: @cassady_orha

MY FRIEND

My friend, how often do you cry?

I see the remnants on your cheeks

And the cold, damp stains on your sheets.

Yet there is no red in your eye.

 

My friend, how often do you hide?

I see the mask of gold smiles

And the fancy perfume vials.

Yet neither is at your bedside.

 

My friend, what is it you feel?

I see sorrow dance on your lips

With each of those martini sips.

Is there nothing I can heal?

 

My friend, please tell me what to do,

I want to see what is in your soul;

To be the one who makes you whole,

Because I love your point of view.

 

Or rather, my friend, because I love you.

——

 

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GOLDEN STRUGGLES

It’s hard to believe

Life is hard for everyone.

Even Donald Trump.

 

Although Donald Trump

Might not have it quite as hard

As a Harlemite.

 

Better dipped in gold

Than underneath a bootstrap,

Or invisible.

 

In the beating sun

Better to carry the whip

Than pick the cotton

 

That life’s more easy;

Even if they both get burned.

Only one gets scars.

 

But that’s hard to see

From a penthouse apartment

In your own hotel.

——

 

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STOOD UP

His right leg was twitching. Beating up and down like a drummer in the middle of his solo. But he was stuck on a bench waiting. It was a beautiful day. The sun was out at half past ten and rising. The birds were chirping, the children were playing, the air was crisp, and the grass seemed greener than usual. Yet he looked as if he were sitting in a dark room.

He had been there for two hours. Sitting, waiting, wishing. Hoping that she would show up. He let his mind wander to the dentist, to his classes, to his family, and back around. He’d look at the children playing happily and smile. But if anyone looked a bit closer, they would see the pain hidden behind that smile. The sense of worthlessness that had hardened itself inside. A sense that himself tried to hide away in drinks, parties, and friends. Yet nobody ever seemed to look that closely. They just saw the smile, and thought he was ok.

He stayed through the sunshine and into the starlight, until the happy cries of children had turned to the empty silence filled only by the chirp of crickets. Until finally a gust of wind pushed him to his feet, and he realized the time. With a cool, clean breath of the night air, he began his walk home. He passed by happy couples, warm houses, and smiling teenagers, until he finally got to his flat. He ascended the stairs, focused hard at the ground so as to not think about the let down he had experienced again. He numbed himself to the pain, until he could stand to face himself in the mirror.

He checked his phone. No new messages. No calls. No friends. He felt so alone. He tossed his shirt to the hamper, and left his pants on the floor, and decided to shower. The water was like the warm embrace he had hoped for. He let it drown his senses. The steam built up and cleared his lungs. He cried. First it was small dribbles, then in heavy heaves. He sunk to the ground, legs crossed, and waited. The water poured down on him for what seemed like hours. Until he felt the heat run away and the chill set in. He got up, shut the water off, and got out. It was time to get up again.

THE CAVE

In the valley there is a Cave

To which few people get to have

More than a moment to visit.

Yet when in my youth I viewed it

I came to find the love of life.

It’s the sanctuary from strife,

The protector against the cold,

For all people, from young to old.

 

When I heard that the Cave collapsed,

All the memories that had lapsed

Came to the forefront of my head,

To mourn that a great man were dead.

A GLASS OF MILK

She swallowed. The milk was cool and refreshing after a long day of work. She set the glass down on the counter, still half full, and looked out the window, admiring the uncharacteristically blue sky and the pinks and yellows of the neighbors flowerbeds. She wondered how the world could be so beautiful and so loving.

She heard the creek of the hardwood as she walked through her kitchen to her bedroom. The wood was cold beneath her socks, but she liked it. It, in many ways, was comforting to her to know that even on a warm day like today her house was a place for respite. She pulled off the sweat ridden t-shirt and pants she wore, and threw them in the hamper. They caught at the top of the pile for a moment, before listlessly rolling to the ground. She rinsed herself off, all the sweat, dirt, and filth from a day’s work melted away like the winter’s frost in spring.

She turned the water off, and for a moment paused to kick the small specks of dirt that now lined her tiled floor into the shower drain, before eventually drying off. She dressed herself in a pair of warm pajama pants and a long t-shirt, then walked back into the kitchen. She picked up her cup of milk, and took another small sip. As the liquid crossed her lips she looked back out to the world outside. It was nearly sunset, with the blue sky giving way to a beautiful orangish color.

Her eyes wandered through the clouds before finally settling on her husband, who was walking up the steps. His head was bowed in deep thought. She lifted the glass of milk for another sip. It was already half empty. She drained the glass, leaving but a thin residue along the side of the glass. There was a knock at the door. She swallowed.

FEARLESS DEPRESSION

His face in his hands and his shoulders slumped,

A man sits in the corner of the room.

Happy people’s feet a floor above thumped,

While rain pitter-patters and darkness looms.

In thick droplets, water pools from his eyes,

As though each one contained a part of him,

And they scatter, like the storm in the skies.

His heart begins to rip him limb from limb.

And then, like a flash of lightning it comes,

Pain and agony shoots through his being,

It rocks and shakes him like the beat of drums,

And all his sadness runs away fleeing.

He looks out the window to greet the night,

And in fearless depression he takes flight.

 

Hello everyone,

Happy end of the week! I decided to change up my poem for this week with something not romance related (at least, not necessarily romance related, this poem is still open to interpretation). Let me know what you think of it! Its a sonnet, and it’s fairly close to being in iambic pentameter, so, you know, judge it how you will.