Burn Baby Burn

How many degrees to burn you out of the heart of me?

Seven Hundred sixty degrees? Nine hundred eighty?

Charred hopes, drifting embers of dreams…

And when your bones split and turned to ashes

Crumbling onto white unforgiving ceramic

Did what was contained within fly free?

Released for all Eternity…

For last night in fevered dreams the North wind howled

A familiar wolf song it seemed

Stealing in through the cracks of my consciousness

A swirl of stardust, your precious essence

Whispering “I love you”

A cherished spark landing

Upon smouldering tinder

Inside the soul of me…

~ kei

20 February 2015

In Spirit

Ghost Writer scribbles

Our stories live on

Conjured by a medium’s keystroke

We are spilled ink apparitions

But oh! How substantial

In blue cursive and black typeface

Not phantoms at all

Real

You and Me

Kiddo

~ kei
12 January 2015

Untitled

Le Retourné ~ Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers prompt for 31 October 2014.

What is Friday Fictioneers? Rochelle presents a challenge to write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end, based upon a picture that she provides on her blog.

Here is today’s picture prompt (below):

©Melanie Greenwood

©Melanie Greenwood

Le Retourné

Word Count: 101

We’d been meeting here for almost six weeks. Five since I arrived in Montreal. I didn’t know a soul, she wouldn’t ordinarily speak with a stranger but we’d struck up a friendship. I’d spent two nights sketching her portrait and hoped she’d like it.

I was sorry to see the modern renovations, sorrier that she never came after that. I inquired for her of the Manager, who paled a little to see my sketch.

“Mam’selle”, said the Manager, “That is Lucette, she waited tables here in the 1960’s. They just recovered her bones from the banks at Rapides du Cheval Blanc.”

Genre: Fiction

©kei
29 October 2014

Sunday Photo Fiction ~ Remember Me

Sunday Photo Fiction: October 26 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

©A Mixed Bag

©A Mixed Bag

Remember Me

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 203

~~~~~

I watch him, as he lies sleeping. Hidden in a shadow so I don’t disturb him.

The woman sleeping beside him yawns as I draw closer. She’s an older version of the woman who stands beside him in the framed photo at his bedside.

He stirs as I draw close, yawning and sitting up at the side of his bed. I’m surprised that his dark hair is silvered. He casts a glance at the woman then looks right at me smiling as he quietly opens a nightstand drawer and picks up another photograph.

I smile to see it. There is the dark hair and brilliant cerulean eyes I know. His arm is round my shoulders and he’s looking straight at the photographer, who’s captured us in a kiss. I smile and give his shoulder a little squeeze. That was a beautiful autumn day just like this one. I do wish that he didn’t seem sad; it’s our engagement photo. The date on it is today’s, the year though… Silly boy, he has my ring on a chain round his neck. Perhaps we’ll go out to the lake again, though I can’t remember the way there anymore.

My memories stop on the #309 highway.

~ kei
26 October 2014

~~~~~

Samhain is one of the major Wiccan Sabbats and is celebrated at the same time as Hallowe’en. At Samhain, the veil between the world of the living and of the dead is at its most thin. It is traditionally a time to honour and say goodbye to loved ones.

Sunday Photo Fiction ~ Razing The Dead

Sunday Photo Fiction: October 12 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

Demolition of an old building. ©Alastair Forbes

Demolition of an old building.
©Alastair Forbes

Razing The Dead

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 224 (WAY over! Hopefully, none “wasted”)

~~~~~

When I first noticed the sign and  construction fencing, my first thought was “They should have done that years ago and salted the ground.”

A conglomerate had purchased the land where various versions of a pub, dance club and restaurant had stood on Robertson Road since our town had been incorporated.

“The Whistle”, as my friends and I knew it, had been a place where I’d spent some fun, hazy Saturday nights in our flaming youth.
We didn’t speak often of the last night it was open, the night when a man none of us knew, confronted Jordie Thiessen and stabbed him to death over a girl. The strange part was, Jordie hadn’t brought a date.

My student experience at Archives turned up a history of similar events at “The Whistle”; 1950’s murder of James Thornton, 1920’s of John Taylor. Discovering a very old microfiche detailing an 1890’s record of public hanging revealed the origin of the pattern. A logger, back from a long stay up north, killed a man in front of the inn that once stood on Robertson’s Farm. The victim, Jedson Toomey, had been courting the logger’s fiancée. The logger’s name is lost but it seems that even in death, he never forgets.

Frankly, I’m relieved. My nephew Jackson is old enough to visit the local pubs when home from university.

~ kei
12 October 2014

Note: “Razing The Dead” is a play on the term “raising the dead” and the place in Bells Corners that Al’s photo reminded me of did exist, much as I described. I truly did feel it haunted, though I’ve based my theory on fictionalized bits of local history. Ottawa was a logging and military town, it was wild ‘n wooly. I should mention, where the pub stood is as yet a barren field. Still fenced, and only a smattering of weeds is brave enough to grow there.