Mephistopheles and his demons
run rampant through my brain
drowning thoughts, drowning feelings
a spirit hurricane
teeth tear apart truth
revealing succulent lies
sugar-coated in happiness
in an attempt to survive
dark angels feast on all
leaving famine in their wake
an empty shell of a mind
now so fragile it breaks
and collapses inward
into the soothing blackness of death
taking my war-ravaged spirit
that has at last found rest
Adele at her finest…enough said. Just enjoy.
When I got home from school, I told Granny about Bubba Higgins.
“Terrible thing to lose a child,” she said. “A body shouldn’t have t’put their babies in the ground. . . ain’t right. I know how it feels.”
We prepared supper in relative silence, and after sitting down to our meal, ate only a few bites.
The wrinkles on Granny’s face looked as if they had been chiseled deeper, her eyes more faded and less focused. Most likely, her thoughts had traveled to the past, to Daddy’s dead brother.
As for me, my mind had taken a disturbing turn. Ira’s strange smile kept floating to the surface of my thoughts. I recalled how furious he had been on the bus yesterday afternoon, the violence seething in his eyes. And Granny’s words kept echoing in my mind: He stares at a body like he’d just as soon kill you as t’look at you.
Was Ira capable of murder? The Ira I knew, that he allowed only me to see, I didn’t think was. But what about that other Ira who showed a stony, arrogant face to the world? God help me, I didn’t know. I had to see him, had to talk to him. Continue reading
This piece was previously posted on an old blog of mine, so to my friends who have read it, feel free to give it a pass; you won’t hurt my feelings. Also, it was written before my short-lived foray into the world of self-publishing, which I found out wasn’t my cup of tea.
For those of you following Sins of the Fathers who are scratching your head and thinking: “Wait a minute, she’s dropping quite a few Gs here”, bear in mind that story was written years ago before I learned less is usually better–and a few other things.
Something has been bothering me for a few months, and maybe if I write about it here I can get it out of my mind.
Concerning my Kindle short, Saving Grace, I received a three-star review because my Southern dialect was, according to the reviewer, an “incomplete translation” due to the fact I didn’t drop my ending Gs, and I had the audacity to use words no true Southerner would, such as “skeert”.
I’ll address skeert (meaning scared) first…
Any of y’all who have followed me for any length of time know I’m as about as Southern as Southern can get. I know and use words and phrases gleaned from my youth that many people in this country, and in others as well, have never heard. Case in point: “yont”. (And no, I didn’t misspell a word, nor leave out an apostrophe.) I’m betting not many reading this post know the word–though maybe have heard it. I’ll use it in a sentence:
“Yont to go ‘coon hunting tonight?” Bubba asked Leroy. Continue reading