Not for Girls

Fridays at the cyber-home of the Hedgewitch are unruly. All right, so that is a bit of a lie. In truth, they are filled with poetry and prose (55 words) ruled by none but the wild muses and wilder wants of the writers birthing them. Since my muse and I adore freedom-kissed tales with words in them, we wrote one.
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“Not for Girls”

“The eyeballs are the windows to the brain,” she said.

Science and conviction weren’t made for girls, I thought. “You’re wrong, dearie, they are the windows to the soul.”

She shrugged. “I went through the eyes, touched the back of his skull, ran into plenty of yuck and bits of brain, sir, but no soul.”

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A Stinker of a Time

If you’ve read me for more than a season, then you already know that my springs tend to be full of T.S. Eliot and The Waste Land. Who can resist inspiration like: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

“A Stinker of a Time”

I learned the trade from Primavera the Fisher.

“Spring can’t stand botched up winter jobs,” Primavera said, the first morning she took me to the docks. “She always floats their mistakes to the surface. It’s a stinker of a time for us, even when their rot comes carrying gifts.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Primavera speared a severed hand that had been bobbing for sunlight. Its pinky finger wore a huge ruby ring.

“They’ll never be good at winter jobs, if they can’t keep a corpse from blooming in spring.”

In winter, it’s best to bury or burn.

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing bloom. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have fished out of the docks.

photo by Fatima Fakier Deria

On el Dia de los Muertos, the Puppet Feels

She births me on el Dia de los Muertos, stuffs me with hope and stitches me up… with deeds.

“Hope isn’t hard to find,” she says, “the thing grows wild out of the eyeballs of young children, and steady in the far stares of well-lived adults, who understand that ends are just new kinds of beginnings. The deeds, well… those take work and pain and blood.”

“It does hurt,” I say, clenching the painted cloth of my teeth against the jabbing pain, rubbing the crimsoned stitches she is using to secure the hope of young and old to the inside of my chest.

“I know.” She cuts the spare thread with her teeth, and kisses the top of my head, before taking a step back to smile at newly born me. Her lips are bloodied. Red has trickled down to her chest.

“You are dirty,” I say, pointing at the cloth that covers her heart.

She unbuttons the top of her dress, revealing fresh ragged stitches that mirror my own, and says, “Dirty? No, just paying the price for hope, for life.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a smirk, knowing the crooked lines of my mouth morph the gesture into a creepy thing.

“Be not sorry, and live,” she tells me. Her smile is a red kick in the face of impossible.

She births me every Dia de los Muertos. And she stuffs me with hope which she bleeds for me.
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the wee notes…
– This bit of fiction was born out of my need to know why the Puppet in “Dance, Old Bones” had such a creepy smirk on her face. I guess now we know—most of us cringe at needles… but some of us (since we know we must) smirk in Pain’s face, showing a menacing amount of teeth.
– Linked to Incipient Wings’ Haunted Humpday.

puppet-detail-from-spelling-healing-into-a-rotting-world-by-sunshineshelledetail, from “Spelling Healing into a Rotting World”, by SunshineShelle