Catching Dreams, or Failing

written 05/2015

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Dead leaves over broken stone
Birds squall like
Creaking swings
From my youth
Important things
Or passing fancies
How to tell
They flit by
So quickly like
Those birds in the brush
Cold metal pushes into
Bare skin as I sit
I’m surprised this fire inside
Hasn’t ignited those
Dead leaves surrounding me
Going so quickly nowhere
Just sitting here
How can I catch hold
Of one of those precious ideas
And not let go
I hang my head
Crush my feet against
Dead leaves over broken stone
As birds squall like
Creaking swings
Echoing in the empty halls
Of my youth

Today’s Random Thought

Here kitty, kitty, kitty, creepy kitty...

Here kitty, kitty, kitty, creepy kitty…

Today I started a “Happiness Cat.” It’s like a “Happiness Jar” but I used a cat instead, since I don’t have a jar. Not a real cat. That would be inhumane. And messy.

What’s a “Happiness Cat” then, you may ask? Or not. I’m going to tell you anyway. It’s a ceramic cat (or jar, or bottle, or fish bowl, preferably empty and clean) that you put slips of happiness into. Every day, at least once, you write one or two sentences about something that brought you joy (or at least mild amusement), and put them into the cat. (The ceramic one.)

Then, if you’re feeling blue on a particular day (or every night) you can reach a hand into the cat and pull out a bit of happiness (…again, I feel the need to stress the ceramic cat. Otherwise, one or both of you may end up in an emergency room.)

I ripped the idea off of someone’s Facebook feed, who ripped it off of someone else. Please feel free to rip it off again, for that’s the beauty of the internet, really.

Feast of Flies

written 6/08/2015

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Sit for your feast of flies
The unborn dies
Rests its weary head upon
Your unopened thighs
Maggots squirm
Lies hide behind
Jagged teeth
Grinding stone, pallid bone
Flesh tears away
Withered, exposed
A tired bell tolls
A cracked fist
Juxtaposed
A painted white flower
Stand, quench your thirst
The unborn bursts
Inside, twists and writhes
The unborn dies
In circles of endless unlife
A feast for flies
Constant, unearthly cries
Fester behind
Tired unseeing eyes

White Sheets, A Short Story

This was a writing prompt. (Using an image of an unmade bed.) It needs cleaning up, I’m sure, but for me prompts are just little things you use and throw away after.. like tampons. I likely won’t do anything further with this, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think. (About anything really, although for the sake of cohesion it ought be be a thought about the story itself or of writing prompts in general.)

She stared at the unmade bed, her arms folded, hair hanging down to her exposed breasts. White sheets. White pillows. Tussled, still body warm. Or so it looked, but she didn’t reach out a hand to test that.

Curtains had been drawn, but light still slipped through cracks in the barrier. One bright line split the room in two, standing as a divider between her bare toes and the foot of the bed. Another cut across the floor behind her, stopping just before it hit the closed wooden door. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the sea of air, an otherwise invisible current the light had exposed.

She ran her tongue over cracked lips, tasting salt.

No one else was in the room with her.

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Boringly Normal Journal Entry

I haven’t been posting lately because I haven’t been writing much lately.. woe is me. Haha, no but for a good reason. My best friend is getting married at the end of June and we’ve been planning the Bachelorette Party. (Not sure if it’s grammatically correct to capitalize those words, but it seems such a Holy day that I would be remiss not to…) I’m pretty excited. I get to get totally wasted and conduct myself in a manner most un-befitting a human being- oh and, my best friend is getting married. I’m excited about that too, I suppose. (I really am.)

Like all good things, the party was slapped together last minute and crammed into the coming weekend with little or no real forethought. It should be fricking awesome! But, I’m wasting time here, I need to get prepared. Ohmmm*… Saturday is tomorrow after all. (I feel like that’s profound in some way. Like it would make a great T-Shirt. Maybe it’s just me.)

So, toodles! I should be back to writing depressing poetry, some blessedly short stories, or other random thoughts later in the month. (But not the 20th, since that’s “the big day.”) Maybe I’ll pop in with a post about the partay. We shall see.

*That was a zen word to focus my thoughts, in case you were wondering.**

**It was also a joke. I’m not really zen. (Another great T-Shirt, in my humble opinion.)

“Slow Down” Tentative Title, a Short Story

    I wrote this over the past couple days. It’s a rough draft, as such it needs a little work. Feel free to offer comments, suggestions, corrections, or just read for the pleasure of it. (For some reason, the formatting is not working properly and paragraphs aren’t indenting like I want them to. I had to put a space in between each paragraph, and even that didn’t work at first. I apologize for the appearance.)

Written 5/28/2015

By Megan Blaney aka wiedinacht

     “Slow down, “she said.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, then squinted down at the speedometer. “I’m only going five over.”

They’d been driving for over two hours, and had at least that to go.

“We’re not out of Worcester yet.” She bit at her nails, crimson red, inch and a half, $30 with a generous tip at Nail Top back home. “It’s a heavy cop area.” She looked out the window. A cyclist in a tight red bodysuit tried valiantly to come up along side them, but failed. She watched him for a bit in the side view mirror.

“Who says that?” He asked, putting on his blinker with a lazy flick of his hand.

She replied as he slid into the left lane, just ahead of a truck adorned with some landscaping logo, a grinning sunburnt face hovering over a lawnmower. “Says what?”

“A heavy cop area.” His eyes shifted to her briefly and a half grin flit across his face. When she didn’t respond right away, he slapped a hand to her thigh. A gesture meant to be playful, but was just a little too forceful.

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Last Night’s Dream

original photo credit www.hotrod.com

original photo credit http://www.hotrod.com

I had a dream last night. Some people like this kind of stuff, find meaning in it. I’m not sure if I do, but dreams can be an entertaining break from the monotony of my life.

Some background first- I used to live, oh I mean, work at a credit union in the mortgage department. I was there for four years- longer than that in various positions within the CU, but about four years in mortgages. I had a pretty nifty boss, but boy she let you have it if you stepped out of line. I respected her for that. I no longer work at the credit union, for reasons unrelated to anything in the following dream.

I’m back at work at the credit union, my boss Lydia (not her real name) is at her desk. Only it’s not the credit union, it’s her home. And it’s not a desk, it’s a kitchen sink. Only, it is a desk, too. Sometimes. My little brother is also there, somewhere. I have a desk of my own, along the back wall of what must be a kitchen. There’s counters, tiled floors, bright lighting. But there’s also filing cabinets, and I’m pretty sure half the room was a forest.

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Today’s Random Thought

12085098-Beer-bottle-neck-with-dust-Stock-Photo-beer-glass-smokeI love the snap and pop of the cap coming off a beer, the clatter as it falls on the counter, and the cool smoke that pours out the newly exposed opening. And the first sip- cold glass on your lips, amber, sweet, bitter, and hoppy, cool goodness flowing into your mouth. So refreshing.

I could write ads for beer companies.

Leibster Award

Thank you to Nadia (https://poemsbynadia.wordpress.com/) for nominating me for the Leibster Award. It seems like a great way to expand and get to know the blogging community. Plus, it looks like it could be fun.

Note to passing readers, don’t read on unless you want a good fifteen minutes of your day consumed, never to be returned… and all without so much as an apology. Or unless I’ve nominated you. Then you ought to read it out of a misplaced sense of obligation.

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Taste of Grease, Reminiscing

written 4/21/15

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Taste of grease, smell of gasoline

Cars go by

Their noise just static

In the background

We sit in a hot car

Hot parking lot

Sipping

Iced cold coke

No A/C

Windows rolled down

Hand cranked

Engine off but key turned

Ready to roll out

Of our temporary corner of the parking lot

Our refuge

We never ate inside with the rest of the populace

Photostatic pedestrians

Always apart, watching

With mild interest

Munching greasy fries

Tossing a few out for the gulls