‘My Scared

The picture prompt is on loan from Michelle Terry. Many thanks and good luck to the scribblers.

A thousand nightmares and endless councillors later…  I faced the elephant in the room, or maybe it was the room in the elephant.

Mum’s eyes were huge and I remember thinking that it would be awful if they popped right out. I am not sure how old I was back then when she tied a tea towel around my face. But I can recall it clearly, It had white lettering across a blue band on a pure white unstained cloth, I remember it hanging in the kitchen but never used, it was special, a for looking at cloth. So I couldn’t see and with my legs straddling her hip, she clutched me tight as the cold air made me shiver. There was a frantic juggling of my bones as she ran for what felt like hours; maybe in circles. Eventually, she stopped and whispered, ‘I have to hide you to make you safe’, I couldn’t stop my teeth from tapping but I thought if she took the cloth off she wouldn’t have left me. I know, she would have seen ‘my scared’ and taken me back home.’My scared’ as I remember calling it, was the way I felt and it was huge that day when she said, ‘best not to make a noise’ she didn’t sound like Mum, her voice was cracked and growling.  As she lowered me to the floor I felt my legs get warm and wet which made her dig her nails in the tops of my arms her breath was damp on my cheek as she snarled “Filthy bitch’. I heard the door close, rattle and a click. Some memories are precise almost intricate, while others are feelings, like wisps of smoke I can’t hold on to.

As clear as day I remember how my belly ached, my throat burned and my tongue had stuck to my own mouth before she returned. Many dark visits with no words followed,  I had noticed her hair became matted and often covered her face,  she would push a cup across the floor and quickly she left. I learned to do my toilet in the farthest corner of my room but after five or so cups of lukewarm soup or oats my waste travelled across the mud floor; eventually covering me. My hair got stiff, I scratched my head until it bled and scabbed…I had sores on my sores.

I can’t, doctors say, (or I refuse) to remember much more; until the end. I told them how It was never day or night just dark and dank. It sometimes would just come, a memory that is,  swooping from nowhere. One such memory was how I once I grabbed her, I tried to kiss her, how she screamed and punched me, my chest hurt as my back made contact with the wall. A long time passed maybe weeks, I couldn’t tell, but when she returned, my stomach hurt so much that I couldn’t crawl to my dirt corner or lift my head. Mother, I stopped thinking of her as that a long time before, but on that visit, I thought she had come back to me. I had awoken to a damp warm cloth scrubbing my face, then she spoiled it. She pulled my lids apart stared at me, her face crumpled as she swore, and phlegm hit my full in the face before she left. I thought at the time she didn’t want me to look back. Later, a tin mug of thin soup and a huge crust of bread was put through the door. I opened one of my eyes; the other was stuck and didn’t want to, I saw her dirty bony hand bring them in,  just her hand as she pushed them across the soiled floor, but couldn’t move, so never ate them.

Now fourteen years on my fully grown up self, on my twenty-first birthday, I am a stronger woman, a woman who mostly dreams of the arms of the paramedic who came to my Mothers aid, who found more than expected, who undoubtedly was my knight in shining armour.

I return to my prison to face what went before.  Bile fills my throat, my eyes begin to involuntarily leak and I vomit behind the swing frame over and over. In the garden, I scan the scene and wonder who if anyone played there while I was away with ‘My scared’ in that place. What shocks me most is the proximity to the house, she would have seen my room from the back door, could have stopped ‘my scared’ in a second… had she been well enough.

I enjoyed the prompt and felt a snapshot was enough but I may return to this for a bigger project at a later date.Did you feel her fear? Did I help you visualise her surroundings? Leave me a comment I will reply as soon as I can.

Auschwitz 1.

Arbeit macht frei” (work set’s you free)

 

Beneath a winters sun a biting wind blew,

Where nobody saw and nobody knew.

With tears in the eyes of our guide

Shock on our faces no-where to hide.

I couldn’t remove her words from my ear

The ones no decent human wants to  hear.

Watching through a fog knowing the reality

It slid beneath flesh and warped earth’s polarity.

Ramming evil home, planting it deep

like marrow into the bone.

Escape was not made for here,

corrections happened and slaughter… its clear.

They walked towards death one by one,

Without the fear of what was to come.

When water became gas, to help them cope,

they sang the  Hatikvah, their song of hope.

I see piles of  hair when I try to sleep,

the discarded shoes torn from innocents feet.

I see their faces before me as I softly weep,

Brush crematoria soot from a tear stained cheek.

This place bore witness to pure evil that time,

it can not be erased from the depths of my mind.

At the shooting wall I picture them standing that day,

Singing hopeful  prayers they refused to face away.

The Nazi machine, its power so strong,

kept the furnaces burning all night long.

Hundreds were cremated day after day,

Not fast enough to clear the piles of decay.

First their status then their pride

Ripped them apart nowhere to hide.

For all the souls that gather there,

Their fortitude, their pain and despair.

I beseech you all, to stand and see

the shooting wall… just like me.

The rose was placed on one of the beds that held six bodies in the barracks of Auschwitz one. Poignantly positioned, by someone paying respects on March the second 2017.

A  piece of me shifted that day, my eyes clouded and my heart cried. I thought long and hard before posting this and though I hope you leave me a comment I will umderstand if you don’t.

Counting Forbidden Fruits.

Thank you Jane for the challenge once again an exquisite picture to prompt us to write press 🔜here 🔙 to join in or read wonderful tales.

The image for this week’s challenge is by illustrator Virginia Frances Sterret and comes from a book of French fairy tales.

“Warning This Is Not A Fairy-tale”.

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Ernest lay amongst the duck filled pillows, his chest squawking and rasping eerily in the darkened room. Occasionally he propped himself up to spit and decorate the now cardinal stained cloths at his bedside. The drapes were parted to light up the illustration on the wall without throwing light willy-nilly about the room.

He recalled the juiciness of the fruit, the pure, and the innocent that he plucked fresh and devoured. As his memories awoke, his loins stirred beneath the blankets. One, two, six in fifty-three, nine in sixty-four. His mouth filled as he wretched and decorated another cloth. Sixty-four was best he thought as he grabbed at his maleness below the sheets. The time of promiscuity, the upper middle classes at least were disgusted by the freedoms that the young flaunted. Giving him cover and power, who’d believe a half-naked hippy smoking pot in the park over him; no…Sixty-four had a good bouquet.

A nurse entered the stale room to bring fresh handkerchiefs, administer a bed bath and leave his morning news. He may be dying, hopefully, any time now; she thought, but he made her skin crawl. A portly chap who too often stroked or grabbed her in feigned sleep, she’d be glad when this one was done.

The illustration was Ernest’s favourite, it had been the most successful lure, and he intended it to be the last thing he would see on leaving this god forsaken world. .The thought of where he was destined to go held no fear for him. His position and wealth allowed him to indulge in his one passion…  until the eighties when do-gooding became the rage. But many a fellow could never satiate their needs, and would die never sampling the flesh or fulfilling that wicked desire. And here he was, unable to tally how many… how many pieces of forbidden fruit he managed to taste.

 

This evil tale is strictly fiction and bears no resemblance to anyone living or deceased.

comments are welcomed and responded to soonest.

    To Capture A Soul.

It came, a mist a fog with stench.

A beast grotesque, teeth he clenched.

He swooped across land and space

until it came upon her place.


Slyly skulking under the door,

she felt it move across the floor.

Filling her with fear and dread,

He flung her soul upon the bed.


Fog gathered thick and tight,

It had blood in his sight.

Evil stared her in the face

held her in its hot embrace.


Trembling she pissed upon the floor

her earthly self could take no more.

Ripping at  her from beneath,

grinding, crunching with its teeth.


Stood and gathered familiar form,

A look of man appeared the norm.

His glowing eyes  cast a light,

She bears the scars this eerie night.


He held her limp and lifeless self,

gently laid her on a shelf.

Where a vase of wild flowers bloom,

throwing spring across the room.


A tear, a shimmering stone,

He thrust it hard against the bone.

pressing into the gaping hole,

that once contained a woman’s soul.


She flinched as if a current passed,

Slowly sitting she looked aghast.

Evil  had taken the place,

Of beauty on this immortal face.


As daylight hovered,

they melted to the floor.

A  green fog

slipped 

silently

 Beneath

The

Door.

Another journey for me, a dabble with horror. Let me know what you think.

leave me your thoughts in the comments I will answer soonest. 😈😇 

I lift my pen & then…

I tried, on this day I cried…  and then,
Words I needed to write were stuck in my pen.
Tears streaked my cheeks I felt my  stomach flip,
Dry heaved I retched sweat gathered on my lip.

The ink thickened my stomach burned,
Try as I might my words had not learned.
Mine were too sad to leave my pen,
To speak of the death caused by men.

Who they had never met or even seen,
those who made their lasts a scream.
who stole mankind’s dreams
and left only deafening screams.

Trying again I lift my pen… and then

image

I don’t think I will ever find the right words but  I wrote these on the night of the terrible atrocities in Paris.

Sinner or sin.

image

There’s nothing as pure as sin…

Delivered in the name of god,
Street woman killed with a builders hod.
Against the bible he said
As he left her for dead.

Stan smirked as he stood in the dock,
Fluffed and preened like a cock.
He said he had a right,
To take a life that dreary night.

Twenty years he got locked inside,
Twenty years to sit and hide.
Time where he’s alowed to breathe,
Where decent folk pay for his every need.

Still she lies no blood to bleed
For walking streets to make a crust
Along came Stan her head he bust,
All that’s left are thoughts and dust.

Beware…

image

First came the stench, the cloying taste that filled her lungs
The putrid slime oozed from her gums.
Skin that fell off in clumps
As rotting only left her stumps
Dragged heself across the floor
Leaving one arm by the door.
Her nails stayed behind stuck in the ground
Her lips were never to be found.
When the mist becomes green and thick
bad enough to make you sick
Beware the corpse upon the ground
Because her remains were never found
A myth a story was once told to keep man in place
Any day she  could come; come to steal away your face.

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