PAD 2022 Day 2: Second Chance

 This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2022 challenge and will be revised. 

PAD Prompt: Second Chance

Poetic Form: Prose

“Yesterday”

There are times, when the past calls me to follow it down the stairs. Promising no harm, yet the light switch never works. The darkness whispers to me, drawing me down seldom used stairs. Each step creaking as I step back - back to any moment in time that I could have been important to you, both of you. I could have been loved like a son. Protected. Tossed a ball to. Had someone there on Parents’ Night.

My feet touch the concrete floor. My eyes adjust. The outlines of memories are visible, I recognize them because I lived them. I feel the darkness that sits in the middle of their existence. I admit to a heavy desire to bring them up the stairs, into the light. Hoping against hope that I can refurbish them. Freshen the paint. Make each memory joyful.

I touch the edge of an old black and white TV. One of the first memories of you wasted on a bed that lays on a floor. The sunlight making the dust dance. I watch a movie about giant spiders. I am hungry, you do not respond. I am four years old and know not what to do.

I hold the tears back, knowing that none of these memories can give me the power to write a different story. The darkness holds me there, even as I want to leave. My chest tightening. Starting to panic. It feels like you are here, stepping from the depths of yesterday. I feel the air move backwards. I am on the edge of fear and anger. I break for the stairs. Feel a hand brush my shoulder blade as I reach the top of the stairs, entering into the light of today.

You do not deserve a second chance.

Poetic Form 83: Rimas Dissolutas

 Stranger From Nowhere

Walking city streets, boots clicking

the concrete. No one knows his name.

He is the stranger from nowhere.

Even though he’s been on these streets

for years. His shadow removes all 

memory of songs gone missing. 

The air he exhales ignites flames

in the words of their silent prayers. 

He can drop the stars like sharp beats

onto their hands, piercing the small

life lines until erased, kicking

the clock ahead. His rules, his game.

There is not a color, beware,

for his magic. No trick defeats

the way he knots the lines we call

divine. Tomorrows gone switching

with a wave of his hand. The blame

darkens their days. Silence declares

a last breath. His smile stops heartbeats

before they can catch their own fall.

Watch for the stranger from nowhere,

Waiting, a ghost in the back seat.

Poetic Form #83: Rimas Dissolutas

The rimas dissolutas form was popular in the 12th and 13th century 

with French poets. Each stanza contains no end rhymes, but each line

in the following stanzas rhymes with the corresponding line in the first

stanza. The poem sometimes employs an envoi at the end. There are 

no hard rules for syllable count, length, or meter. There just needs

to be consistency in the structure of the stanzas.

Poetry Challenge Day 18: Message

*Decided to step out of the box on this one and write a horror / suspense like poem... 
in the sense of a poem like "My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning. 
Each line is nine syllables.

Miss You

Thirteen days, six hours and five minutes

since she was taken from his strong arms.

Today was the second shower he had

taken in that time. The flowers on

the counter now turning black. Petals

wilted, aroma of the death they 

were meant to console. Pieces of the

cards he tore apart mixed with the mess.

Funny how nobody called anymore.

The bathroom filled with steam, the towel

wrapped around a waist she would place her

hands on when she would surprise hug him

in the kitchen as he washed dishes.

His heart felt empty, weak, as if it

no longer wanted to beat any

type of rhythm. He held onto the 

sink, head down. Tears filling the basin.

He looked up to see if the mirror was

clear of the steam. He felt his heart race

as the words “Miss you” appeared on the

glass. The rhythm in his chest almost

broke him. He placed his left hand, ring still

there, next to the two words. He felt her 

fingers enclose his. Nobody called.

Thrid Collection of Very Short Stories

Here is the third collection of very short stories... a couple of these need to be expanded.

"What if we are on the last line of God's #haiku?" she asked. Her mother put down her pen. She had been writing her weekly letter to her own parents. The quarantine was now into the third month. She looked at her daughter, green eyes hoping. "It was a beautiful poem." #vss365

 

He #organized the love letters into shoeboxes. Each card placed in the envelope with the crease at the top. Placed in the box by date. Funny, there were no letters since 2016. He placed the shoeboxes into a packing box with the divorce papers. He had enough for postage. #vss365

 

The #Armada Township in Nebraska was busy that day. The Miller Community Center was packed. The parking lot filled with mostly trucks, but a few tractors. The President was on the radio. Only the soft cooing of a child was heard when the world went back to war. #vss365

 

"Dad, can you dance?" "I can do the #Robot." "What is that?" "Play some music... and watch this!" After a minute he sees that the room is empty, but can hear the laughter from the other room. He continues anyway, awash in memory. #vss365

 

"May I have a #word with you?" The little boy hung his head walking to the corner of the playground with his teacher. What had he done this time? He felt like everyone wanted a word with him. He resisted the urge to run. "That was an awesome throw!" He smiled for once. #vss365

 

The lights. The stage. The microphone. The paper filled with words not #spoken. Her hands trembling. Her pain and beauty screaming to be heard. The audience waiting to be knocked over with her voice. She coughs and opens her soul for the world to hear. #vss365

 

He couldn’t get a #spark from the lighter. Panic set in. He felt around him for some stones, something. It was day 88 of the darkness. He tried to slow his mind. There was a rumble building behind him. He couldn’t tell if it was them or just the world falling apart. #vss365

Second Collection of Very Short Stories

Here is another collection of very short stories. Let me know which one was your favorite.

“Only #seventeen coins!” Alhea screamed. She resisted the urge to shatter the trunk with her sword. She turned around twice in rage. “2,000 miles! I killed four ogres! And that stupid wizard’s spell took 3 of my fingers! For 17 coins!” She shattered the trunk. #vss365

 

I crept into the kitchen, tip-toeing, holding my breath. The Lucky Charms were on the third shelf. I could just reach the box. The cereal was a #tribute for the burnt boy under my bed. He kept the monsters at bay in my closet. #vss365

 

He stood at the edge of the bridge, questions running through his head, through his heart. He watched a #seagull glide between the sky and ocean. The pain was cracking his chest. Fly? Step down? Was there a life after this? The death certificate fell from his hand. #vss365

 

The #whitecaps over took her again. She giggled. With a rush of arms and legs, the toys fell from the edge. She couldn't believe the power she had to make the bubbles populate in front of her. She laughed out loud. Dad, sighed, grabbed a towel for the floor and smiled. #vss365

 

She stood at the sink. The house had been silent for months. He wondered how to #bridge this emotion. How do they love now that it was just them? Could he take her back to long gazes over coffee & passionate kisses goodnight? He moved toward her, placing his hand in hers. #vss365

 

2047 They say truth is stranger than fiction, Desire was still trying to wrap her life around the #purge. She was alone in the staff room of a school in WY. Once Texas seceded, everything fell apart in just a few months. She checked her backpack. Time to move. #vss365

 

The wolf had a #deathly look in its eyes. Jerrod stood frozen with a trash bag in his right hand. Silently, the pack emerged from the morning mist. His lungs kicked back on, air rushing in. The wolves stepped forward. "Hurry up with the trash, hun" his wife shouted. #vss365

 

He was at #peace. He knew the gun would fire. Nothing else mattered at the moment besides what happened after the shot. How his body would react, how his mind would be affected. He would work on that one last breath. There was no room for mistakes during this race. #vss365

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Walker

10:37 p.m. Tuesday night.

The back road was empty next to the neighborhood that was developing about a mile away from the city. Light could be seen from a handful of windows and street lamps scattered across the the cul-de-sacs. A single streetlamp at the intersection of Maple and 87th Ave., one of two roads that brought people to the neighborhood, created a cone of light that revealed the farmland filled with corn stalks on the west side of the road. It was quiet. It was safe.

10:39 p.m. Tuesday night.

In the cone of light created by the streetlamp at the intersection of Maple and 87th Ave., a man appeared as if he walked out of the darkness instead of walking on the street. If anyone saw him, they would assume he was old, homeless, and lost. He wore three layers of t-shirts underneath a vest you would find on someone who was fly fishing. He limped with an up down motion on his left side. His fingernails were dirty. His hair was white, messy. If you had the chance to talk with him, his eyes would wander, never making eye contact. He slowly walked through the light toward the city.

A set of headlights appeared in front of the man. Derrick was heading home from Sonic. He had stopped to get a slushie after playing basketball at the YMCA. A group of school friends were hanging out, so he had decided to stay for a while. He texted his parents to ask if he could be home by 11:00. They were fine with it. Derrick was feeling good, music a little loud.

Derrick was surprised to see the man walking down 87th Ave. He released the gas a little as he moved over to the left lane to give the man space. As Derrick passed the man, he made the assumption that he was homeless and forgot about him as he turned right onto Maple, then right again onto Spruce Ct. Which was one of six cul-de-sacs in the neighborhood. Derrick’s home faced 87th Ave. There was an empty lot between the his house and 87th Ave. As Derrick reached up to push the button on the garage door opener, he saw the man, still on the avenue, but now facing him. There was just enough light from the streetlamp to see him. Derrick never noticed that he could actually see all of the man, even though the light should have only exposed the man’s left side. For a second, Derrick thought about locking his doors. The garage door was slowly opening, revealing the light from the garage door opener. Derrick’s attention moved to driving the car forward. The idea of getting ready for bed and the homework he probably should do before going to bed replaced the man in his mind. Derrick started to take his foot off the brake when motion outside his window drew his attention.

Derrick looked quickly outside the driver side window to see the man standing there. A slight smile on his grimy face, eyes still unfocused, and his hands moving up toward the window. Derrick had just enough time to register everything before the shattering of glass made him let go of the steering wheel to shield his face. His car moved slowly forward into the garage to bang into the fridge the family used to hold drinks like Gatorade, water, and sometimes extra beer. The impact was loud enough to wake Derrick’s mom, June.

June shook her husband, Robert. He grumbled then turned over. June got up, grabbed her robe from the hope chest at the end of the bed. She assumed she would run into her son in the hallway, but the house was still dark and quiet. She thought she could hear Derrick’s car still running in the garage. June felt that motherly instinct in her gut that something was not right. With the bang she heard, and the car still running, she sighed heavily as she considered the possibility that Derrick might have been drinking. She had worried about this moment since Derrick started junior high. June could feel her cheeks get warm as she unexpectedly felt anger gripping her heart. It was a Tuesday night.
June continued through the living room to the hallway with the door to the garage. June could definitely hear the car running and hurried to the door. June’s anger gripped tighter around her chest as she turned the knob.

June hurried down the three stairs to the floor. Anger was replaced with panic as soon as she saw the car’s grill pressed against the refrigerator, heard music playing, and saw the shards of glass around the edge of the driver side window.

    “Derrick! Robert come here!” June yelled as she pulled open the car door… to find the front seat empty.

10:43 p.m. Thursday night.

A single streetlamp at the intersection of Vine and 26th street created a cone of light that revealed the well maintained lawns. A single bark breaks the silence.

10:46 p.m. Thursday night.

In the cone of light created by the streetlamp at the intersection of Vine and 26th street, a man appeared. If anyone saw him, they would assume he was old, homeless, and lost. He wore four layers of t-shirts underneath a vest you would find on someone who was fly fishing. He limped with an up down motion on his left side. His fingernails were dirty. His hair was white, messy. If you had the chance to talk with him, his eyes would wander, never making eye contact. He slowly walked down Vine Street. Three blocks away a set of headlights appeared.

Disappear

    I wrote this three years ago. During a DL (distance learning) class one of the away schools had a fire drill.  Their classroom looked like they had disappeared.  School supplies were everywhere, and it was deadly silent.  A student commented how eerie it was and that sparked this story.

        His eyelids were heavy.  He blinked fast seven times, but the warmth of lunch combined with another PowerPoint over the checks and balances of our government made his eyes heavy.  It was not as if he hated the class, in fact in most cases it was interesting to learn about America’s government and how power was displayed, bartered, and abused.  However, it followed lunch.  Today was BBQ sandwiches, and Justin had consumed five of them.  Three minutes until the bell.  He could make it because his next class was “on-line” today.

            Sixth period was an early entry college class, American Literature that was broadcasted over the Internet and displayed on a flat screen TV.  He went to class with four other schools. St.Paul a town 20 minutes away.  Loup County which was an hour south and Pleasanton High School which was 40 minutes to the west.  The home site, where the class was broadcasted from, was at University of Nebraska, Kearney. 

            They were “on-line” three days a week, like a real college class.  Justin was excited to see Rose Tatemen from Loup County.  They had started to talk on Facebook after they had to debate what Robert Frost meant in his poem “The Road not Taken.”  There were actually five students, one from each site, but the debate had progressed to Rose and Justin debating the meaning of the last paragraph.  Rose standing firm on the idea of Frost saying that taking the path was a statement of individuality. Justin countering that she had been brainwashed by Hallmark and that Frost was saying you can never know what a choice will do for you in life, hence the line, “I will be saying this with a sigh.”

            Justin was struck by her independence, and her slight lean to the left with her right eyebrow up when she thought she had made a great point.  That night he connected with her on Facebook and their friendship was progressing the last couple of weeks.  He was walking quickly to be there before the tardy bell.  The first five minutes of class were always hectic as the schools came on line.  Dr. Graf was always logged on at 1:00; St. Paul was usually on too.  Then Justin’s class, followed by Loup County, then Pleasanton which didn’t have sixth period until 1:07.

            “Hello Justin, early again.”  Dr. Graf commented from the TV.  There was just a slight delay between his lips and the words, as if you had blinked at the beginning of the conversation and your mind was trying to make the audio match the visual input.

            “Good afternoon, I was trying to walk off the great lunch I had.”

            “Hummm, I see.  Maybe the day will be even better with a debate today over money’s power on people.”  Dr. Graf said with that sly smile of his that meant there was more to the statement.

            “Depends on who I get to debate with,” Justin replied with a smile.

            “Well, let’s get the other class on-line…” they both smiled.

            Justin hoped that college would be this interesting.  He could not wait to be done with high school.  He was ready to be done with what seemed like consistent drama.  Everyone around him seemed to be stuck in junior high.  Other students were entering the room, Justin sat in his normal place, far left middle row of tables.  Just at the edge of the camera’s vision. The seat was next to the only window in the room, and even if it seemed he was not listening, he was as he stared out at the window.

            The TV was in motion; Dr. Graf ‘s window was to the right and large.  To the left the windows were getting smaller as the column filled with video of the four high schools.  Pleasanton flashed on last, and the speakers shared the mix of students laughing, setting books down, and the constant rumblings of teenage life issues.

            Justin looked at Loup County’s window for Rose.  There she was, third desk middle row, pencil tapping her tempo.  Justin raised his pen, tapping his right tempo.  It was their hello.  They both smiled.  They had started the ritual last week.

            “OK, class let’s get caught up on due dates for the next week…” Dr. Graf’s voice continued while Justin watched the sunlight highlight the edge of his table as his mind checked off the assignments in his head.

           

            The clock read 1:13

            “St. Paul?”  Dr. Gaf’s voice inflected with annoyance.  “Hello.  St. Paul…  Are you there?”  The screen revealed tables with books, computers open, and a few water bottles but no students.  The class was involved in group work.  Each site had three groups with their own set of questions covering the book, The Natural.  They would then share and discuss answers toward the end of class.

            “Did anyone hear anything, like a bell or fire alarm?”  Dr. Gaf asked, as most of the students’ attention moved to the TV in their rooms.  It was always a fun moment when one of the high schools would run a practice fire alarm.

            A series of no’s ran through the system.  Making the audio do a slight feedback that made Dr. Graf winch in his comical way.

            “Hummm, continue to work.  I’m going to try to contact Mr. Jackson at St. Paul.”  Dr. Graf turned to his computer, then proceeded to pick up a phone that was just out of sight of the camera.  The students returned to work, but kept an eye on the screen.  Dr. Graf didn’t seem to be able to get anyone on the phone.

            The clock read 1:16

            Shelly saw it first, from Loup County.  Dr. Graf was busy at his computer, it seemed he was typing something, probably an email.

            “Dr. Graf,” a slight hesitation from Shelly.

            “Yes.”  He didn’t look up from his computer, but you could sense he was listening from the slight shift of his head to the right.

            “Pleasanton is gone…” the statement hung in the air.  Every student turned to see two windows that revealed the same picture.  The basic student life laid out on tables, but no students.

            Dr. Graf stood still.  The remaining students held their breath, not sure what to do.  Then a smile broke the tension.  “Nice practical joke, guys,” Dr. Graf said.  His shoulders relaxing.  “I appreciate the work you put into this, but let’s get back to work.  Come back St. Paul and Pleasanton.”  He spoke directly into the microphone and turned to the TV on his left.  For a moment, it seemed as if the students would return, loud and with smiles.  But nothing.

            “OK, I get the joke.  Let’s get back to work.”

            Justin spoke, “I don’t think it is a joke, Dr. Graf.”  He had not been informed of any practical joke.  From the looks of his fellow classmates, they hadn’t either.

            Rose looked at him, the TV broadcasting her and every other students’ panic.  Justin looked into the camera, trying to let Rose know he saw her by his will alone.

            “Hold on, guys.”  Dr. Graf grabbed the phone.

            The clock read 1:19.

            Justin didn’t think he blinked.  But it felt like the world did.  Dr. Graf was gone.  He could have left to speak to someone.  “Hello, Kearney?  Anyone there?” Justin moved to the teacher station in the room.

            No response.  The students at Kearney were never on camera.  The room only had one camera and it was directed at the teacher station.

            “Kearney.  Anyone?  Hello.”  Justin tried to keep the panic from filtering into his speech.

            “What’s going on?”  Katie spoke with a whisper.  A rush of noise came from Loup County.  Mrs. Heinen had burst into the room.  “We can’t contact St. Paul.  Mr. Badura advises us to stay here until further notice.”

            “Justin, what do we do?”  Adam was standing next to him.

            “I don’t know…  Run to the office and see if they know anything.”  Adam was off before he finished his statement.  Justin glanced at the clock, 1:21.  An alarm went off in his mind. He tried to get a clear thought pattern going, but the absurdity of the situation broke every thought apart.

            “Justin.”  A voice.  He looked around but his classmates were all busy in their groups.  He could see the uncertainty in their actions, grabbing a book bag and putting it back down.  Travis literally eating his pen top.

            “Justin.”  It was Rose.  She was peering through the camera, eyes holding back tears.  Justin moved toward the TV to see her.  His mind cleared.  Even at this moment, she was beautiful.  A crazy urge to just hold her overwhelmed him.

            “Yes, Rose.  I’m here…”

            She smiled and started to tap her pen… the clock’s hand moved to 1:22.