The Picnic

after more than a decade of virtual hugs and late night chats, the four girlfriends have finally met again for a summer picnic.

two married, one engaged, one still single, they’ve bonded because of one common denominator: a guy they played love with. a nerd from college who’s known for his ragged blue jeans and an old-day-smelling shirt.

under the hot sun with the smoky smell of barbecue, there was no sound but their joyful giggles. until a dashing, familiar man appeared. until they heard nothing but bangs after bangs. then the green lawn turned red with fresh blood.

silence.

Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Yarnspinner

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) May 09, 2017. 🙂

BLEEDING LINES

My debut book Between My Bleeding Lines is now available on Amazon and Createspace! Please see the following links:

Thank you! ❤

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Our River

the gentle whispers of the trees’ breeze. the tender murmur of river’s flow. the playful tweets of the little birds. these sweet sensual delights are the reasons why we used to visit this river. the river we called ours.

today i clutch unto you, unto your vessel. your vessel made of cold porcelain, a stark contrast to how warm your hands were when you held mine.

slowly opening the lid, feeling what was left of your mortality, i let the salty tears wet my face as i let your ashes be one with the river. the river we called ours.

Note: I wrote this piece with Ed Sheeran’s Supermarket Flowers playing in my ears. Sigh.
Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved
Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: My dearie Maria of Doodles and Scribbles

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) April 11, 2017. 🙂

Spring Bud

I smell how the supposed sweet, summer aroma turned into a chilling winter scent as I watch how her soft, smooth skin turns from blushed pink to lifeless violet. I listen to her frail heartbeats, silently begging, pleading, helpless against her quite incoming death.

With a tear-stained face, my mouth utters its own prayer as I hold my almost dying newborn sister. With my shaking arms, I wrap her little body and hope my warmth can give life to thee like the spring sun’s kiss to a frozen naked tree.

My little spring bud
is now a blooming flower.
Death, love can conquer.

02.07.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to dVerse‘s Haibun Monday Ekphrasis and Haiga by Björn Rudberg (brudberg).
Today I would like you to write a haibun on any subject that you like. but you should illustrate it with one picture, and let picture prose and haiku complement each other.

P.S. This haibun is a recollection of a scene which happened six years ago when I held my almost dying sister. Today is her 6th birthday and she is still with us. ❤

dverse

Four Bullets

One. Two. Three. Four.

His seven-decade-old hands hold tight on the rusting rails of his lightless room’s window. His darkened eyes stare at the now fallen tree and then to the triumphant men who successfully defeated the lush pine.

The lush pine planted and reared by his wife. His wife who died last month.

He slowly turns his tear-stained face away from the laughing men and the defeated tree as his old hand unlocked the drawer hiding his pistol. He reaches further for the bullets and slowly loads the gun.

With a dark smile, he whispers…

One. Two. Three. Four.

Word count: 100
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Shivangi Singh

Here’s my dark comeback for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) January 17, 2017. 🙂 Miss you, PJ!

Read more stories here:

 

 

Red: A Rondelet

Dripping red blood
from her pale wrist she cut deeply.
Dripping red blood
screams her pain she kept hidden, locked.
She relish the pain silently,
her final seconds end slowly—
dripping red blood.

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 25.

The Rondelet is a relatively short poem using the entire opening line as its refrain. It is French in origin, another member of the 13th century Rondeau Family of Forms which is defined by its use of the rentrement.

The Rondelet is:

  • a heptastich, a poem in 7 lines.
  • in French syllabic. Syllable count per line are 4-8-4-8-8-8-4 In English tends to be iambic in pattern.
  • composed with a rentrement, in the Rondelet the entire L1 is repeated as refrain in L3 and L7.
  • rhymed. Rhyme scheme interlocks between the refrain AbAabbA.

Nature’s Calling: A Naani

If grief’s a black smoke
we’ll all be blind now.
Killings, murders, hate
are they nature’s calling?
Or we’re just all fan of dying?

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 21.

The Naani is a stanzaic form found at Shadow Poetry and is most often an observation of human relations or current events although it can be open to any subject. Naani means “an expression of one and all”. The stanza form was introduced by Dr. N. Gopi an administrator at the Teluga University.

The defining features of the Naani are:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • syllabic, with a total syllable count of between 20 and 25 syllables.

Shameful: A Spoon River Verse

You stood above me
your hands touching
absent letters in
my nameless grave.

Clearly, that’s how much
you hate having me.
Even a name, just a name,
feels so expensive, so costly.

With shameful smile you begin to cry
for a soul you willingly let die.
The heartbeat you created,
is the same life you ended.

Are you proud now, Mom?

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 14.

Spoon River Verse is a subgenre of Mask or Persona poetry. The term is inspired by the Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, American Poet (1869-1950). The anthology is a series of poems written as if each poem was being spoken by the dead. The setting is a cemetery in an imaginary western town, Spoon River. The voices make up a ‘history’ of the town’s past residents and their relationships.

The Spoon River poem is a poem of voice. The poem speaks from and for a person, not necessarily the poet. The subject, diction and imagery should reflect the character who is speaking through the poem.

Spoon River Verse is:

  • framed at the discretion of the poet.
  • dramatic.
  • written in the voice of a character of a particular time and place. Usually the voice comes from the grave. The person, the era, the location should all be heard through the words of the poem.

Porous: A Palette*

Pile of pans and plates
all dried-dirt-kissed,
beside untouched
porous sponge.

Dripping faucet,
says tap, tap, tap.
Below rusted sink
mice munch, munch, munch.

Blood-bathed body,
lifeless eyes wide open.
Silently decays,
alone, badly broken.

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 8.

Palette  creates a vivid word painting within a brief and lyrical poem. It is simply a short poem, using vivid imagery. This genre was specified by Viola Berg. There is no prescribed structure or rhyme. The only mandate is the poem should create a brilliant image in the reader’s mind.

The Palette is:

  • a word painting.
  • framed at the discretion of the poet.

Used to be Mine: A Song-based Fiction

Stranger. That is what I am.

Sitting people all in black and white, I am estranged to everyone, except one person. She is the only human who knows me here. But she can never say who I am.

She’s imperfect but she tries.

She is good but she lies.

Silence. Murmurs. Quiet sobs. The humans that surround me is as still, as her, as me.

I am somehow a gatecrasher to a wake I was not invited to. But I am here, for her, for a woman who used to be mine.

She is hard on herself.

She is broken and won’t ask for help.

Her mom has spoken, in between loud wails.

Her husband has said a short heartless sentence.

Her little lass, who looked just liked her, sang a song.

Her best friend has stood and hold the microphone, but wasn’t able to utter any word.

She is messy but she’s kind.

She is lonely most of the time.

Now it’s my turn.

“Anyone who want to offer words for…”

I stood, just before the sentence was finished. Everyone looked at me.

I gripped the small piece of paper I’ve been holding for hours. It contains the eulogy I have written…for the only girl that I loved. For the girl who was once mine.

She is all of this mixed up.

And baked in a beautiful pie.

She is gone but she used to be mine.

12.04.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash
Based on She Used to be Mine by Sara Bareilles. Bold and italicized parts are from lyrics of the song.

Deep, Dark, Dreary

Her heart ripped her apart.
Now it’s my part to take all her wrath.
Sharp-as-a-diamond knife
cuts through me to end her life.

Oh, my pain, is it her gain?
Oh, will this cut, erase her hurt?
Oh, will this wound, do any good?

I froze as her blood flows.
I feel the nerves died as her heart tries to decide.
To beat or not to beat.
To live or not to live.

10.07.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Enkivillage
Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 201 Day 3 Assignment.