Wanton zealot, piquer of kings, jester of insanity, cast thy hex—madness, I will never succumb.
It’s beautiful, truly it is, it’s everything I could have wanted in a wedding—outdoors, the wind in my hair and the sun lighting my skin, and yet, I find myself hollow, yearning for something I don’t quite know… can you help me, love?
I want you to speak to me of a time when our laughter bellowed across distances, when we weren’t afraid of getting our new shoes dirty in the blades of grass, when we were just kids hanging around the local 711 with no money and a pack of stale fries between us, and the clerk would eye us disapprovingly as we lingered a little too long in the alcohol section; remind me of a time when I could sit on that swing without fear of getting my clothes stained and you’d just… push.
“Dear, we’re older, we’re wiser, we can legally drink, we have jobs and money and expensive shoes—‘Yes, I know that, but I want to remember, so please just’—I don’t understand why I need to remind you, my dear… why can’t that time be now?”
Check the link above for the prompt image.
Oh my, look, dear—no, not there, the other way—yes, that one, oh, what do you mean you can’t see it… look, it’s clear as day, that white little thing, that albino pretending to blend in with the crowd, pretending like the others don’t notice how different she is, why she’s obviously meant for so much more; just imagine the kind of tourists such a beautiful creature would bring if she were kept in a zoo or some wildlife preserve or… something of the sort!
What do you mean you still can’t see it—it’s because you’re not looking properly, there, under the setting sun—look, she’s so beautiful, such perfect white…oh my, oh, wherever did she wander off to, you must’ve scared her, love; you really shouldn’t drag your feet.
And for the billionth time, yes, I’ve taken my medication, I’m quite timely with those things, you kno—oh, what do you mean I haven’t taken it, how dare you even suggest such a ludicrous thing, why, I’ll bet my morning coffee that you’re just jealous you didn’t get to see that wonderfully colored deer… yes, love, I know we’re in the city, I can see the skyline quite clearly you know—I’m not delusional.
A city of life and splendor, of wonders and riches—filled with people blurring past, all too lost in the moment, slaves working for a better future; or so they tell themselves.
And here I sit, bereft, as I look at the echoes of my past in the form of chipped paint, old cars, and black gumdrop stains, with the realization that soon, even these will be gone from me.
Life’s too fast, my legs can’t keep up anymore, so here I’ll stop, here I’ll rest… observing, waiting, hoping for someone to cross that eight-step street and reminisce with me of a time when jukeboxes still sang and telephones could spin—please… I could use a friend, one that understands, one that remembers.
When I see yarn, two things come to mind: cats and knitted garments. I leaned toward the former. Cats are majestic. I decided on a haiku, so I could limit my words—or syllables in this case. I’m trying a bunch of word limiting prompts to help me improve my writing.
One more ball left here,
Clean it up! Don’t grump about,
We’ve guests, dearest cat.
Second time trying this out. Hope to start doing this every week from now on.
Look at them—those concrete squares filled with different people, young and old, experienced and not—they move about their lives, unaware, and perhaps even uncaring for the rest that linger beside them.
Worlds are created in those apartments, they’re brought up, ever so slowly; some are turned into something that could be called home, while others are mere cases for the rolling stones within—and me… well, here I stand, I stare, and I look up at the starless sky drowned out by electronic lights, I listen to the silence drowned out by incoherent noise, and I bask in it all; no one notices me here, nor do I want to be seen.
This is my world, and here, I don’t much care about them either.
First time trying Three Line Tales out, seems fun.
© Nicholas Rinth
Adornments on my hands and ink on my skin—mementoes of a life I like to say I’ve lived.
It’s been one hell of a ride, filled with hardships and impulses and new beginnings where I’ve met brothers of an entirely different kind. They’ve been good to me, as loyal as the colors lining my callouses; and in the end, well, fuck what people think—life is good, life is short, and when I’m old and gray and my memory fails, I’ll keep a painted scar to remind me of where I’ve been.
Prompt by ChristineRaine: Describe a fear of yours in 60 words or less.
People seem to love dropping my terribly verbose self with word limit prompts. Well, its an interesting challenge at least. I wanted to write something about my terrible fear of heights or frogs, maybe even clowns, but this one seemed the safest—and admittedly easiest—choice. Though it’s not quite as concrete as the rest.
And I fear the day when I wake, looking beside me with a smile in my eyes and good morning on my lips, only to realize that I’ve been dreaming too long. Because the bed is cold. The mirror’s reflection is my only companion.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t go back to sleep.
Prompt by RingingClaps: “Describe your morning today in 50 words or less.”
Well, this was an interesting suggestion. I tend to be… loquacious. But with the new semester on the horizon, it seems rather fitting for me to write about this, seeing as how I won’t be able to enjoy such mornings for a good, long while.
Its gray out, but there’s no rain.
My coffee’s gone stale. Worse than the cigarette haze on my tongue.
At my desk, life seems faraway.
Distant, here in my lethargic bubble, penetrated only by—
Lua’s playing in the background, sounding out against the calm.
The sun wakes.