Multitudes of Potential

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Photo courtesy of Kohji Asakawa via Pixabay.

The weaving of haiku that follows was written in response to Ronovan Writes’ Haiku Challenge #245, based on using ‘Easy’ and ‘Ride,’ which of course meant I had to complicate the journey. Each cluster of three (both horizontal and vertical) is intended to stand as a haiku or senryu (and yes, I know only the last abides by the 5/7/5 stylization), and hopefully the meandering nature of it leads somewhere meaningful. (Sorry for the size of the text; the formatting made fitting it difficult.)

Multitudes of Potential Haiku Chain

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Row 23

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Photo courtesy of Unsplash user Tuce. The story below was originally written as an entry to Ad Hoc Fiction Issue 152, requiring the prompt ‘Gum’ be used.

The cruelty of assigned seating cornered me against a wing. At her boarding, I feigned a nod of greeting, but acted astonished by the majesty not yet below while ignoring her struggle to store her luggage. She ultimately managed as I marveled at the baggage handlers’ utter ennui beneath us and how the window’s reflection divided the task and tedium between us in Row 23.

She took her seat with a smile and I attempted to reciprocate, lifting at least my ears. To my relief, she declined the unintended invitation to talk. Instead, she wordlessly proffered a piece of gum. I meant to dismiss the stick, but the sincerity in her eyes stalled my cynicism. Though I was heading in search of warmth, I knew no climate would match the kindness expressed in her almandine irises, so I cherished our conjoining by the margins of our armrests in Row 23.

Dolce Strokes

Photo prompt courtesy of Anshu Bhojnagarwala for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ Friday Fictioneers. Others’ efforts can be found below.

The music of her touch resonates through the stone. She traces the curvature of its information with pianissimo fingers the way she shyly strummed the song of our first dance on my shoulders.

Notes swirled with pinks and blues and greys play to the tune of Devoted, a spectrum of experience buoyed by the notion. An acrid dolore registers from Father, a title in staccato she argued against including, though she ultimately had no control.

With dolce strokes of her tender chisel, she etches and Husband, then caresses her amendment and tucks the marriage license I’d prepared into a bouquet.

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Knotted Heartstrings

This piece, cleft into triptych nonets, was written in response to Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday Weekly Challenge #127, which asks for syllabic poem(s) based on using synonyms to ‘Lead’ (‘command’) and ‘Follow’ (‘obey’). Hopefully each of the thirds read distinctly, while the center reflects the straight reading.

Knotted Heartstrings 2

Black Kite

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Photo courtesy of Michel Kwan via Pixabay. This triptych is a loose interpretation of applying the words ‘Sound’ and ‘Motion’ provided through Ronovan Writes’ Weekly Haiku Challenge #244; ‘call’ can be read as synonymous to both in the sense of signalling.

Keep in mind this is better left to dissection than to one complete reading, so pull it apart as you please.

Black Kite

Ovid

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Photo credited to Suzanne D. Williams via Unsplash

 

The reflection of my chest stammers imitating the reflex of life, but there must be more within me. My inquisitive fingers hovering, fibers of skin accede to a delicate unthreading of my intimate costuming.

The first discovery is a spring of blood that wells onto the plateau of my belly, then traces down through my navel valley, streams between wispy hairs, and drips away between my legs. Next unearthed are my ribs, the mythical source of give-and-take. The rebar arches that held me together also held me in. At last, my archaeological excavation uncovers a nest. Its unhatched contents stir as I cradle it, then blossom into crescent wings that gravitate to my back and encompass my entirety.

Fluttering before the cheval glass, my chest swells with new exuberance. As I lift, I watch the spring of blood still dripping away like my past life unfulfilled, though swollen with possibility.


Originally an entry for Issue 151 of Ad Hoc Fiction, requiring the use of the word ‘Skin.’

The Itch and Burn

Photo courtesy and copyright property of C.E. Ayr lent for the use of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ Friday Fictioneers writing prompt group. Join in as a contributor or reader below.

We blamed it on his allergies, the itch and burn of his eyes contagious. Tributaries of tears emptied in the bay of space between our bodies, a gap more distant than we know how to mend.

I knew he was allergic, but he insisted; said it’d be nice to have some little critter busying around the house again. We thought it’d give life to the space we can’t fill.

He refuses to take medication; says he’s fine. I’ve gotten rid of the cat, but the tears still stream, and my eyes itch and burn every time I look at him.

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