Yellowed polka dot dreams

I can’t breathe. I pause at the swirling stairwell, at the second step. I took a deep breath, absorbing the dull smell of antique furniture and floor polish. Lingering onto a sudden image of crisp yellow sheets breezing in the sun, my mind grab onto that image. On the third step, my mind grew blank. I couldn't remember where it was I had wanted to go. Then the telephone rang.

I'm suddenly jolted out of my thoughts making me forget whatever secrets I thought I had a grip on. I blink in the bright sunlight's dust, listening to the ringing of the telephone. Once, twice, a sudden silence. Just as well.

Memories, they appear daily but none would stay long, most would leave leaving a stain of uncertainty. Like dried-up rolls of film, they sit in the dark attic waiting to be develop but never could be found among the leftover miscellaneous objects of yesteryears.

The doctors prescribed Prozac but my mind refuses to calm down from the exhaustion that are my memories. I seek no solace in medication which will only hinder my mind for a few hours at a time. Flashes of yellowed polka dot memories encircled this old heart, sometimes taking it for long rides down dark roads. Beyond that, there is only darkness.


Friday 5: doctor, roll of film, stairwell, telephone, secret
Fiction Friday: “I can’t breathe.” Now keep writing.

Ms. Ivy

"Young lady in a tricon hat" by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

In a dark hallway of an abandon house where the walls are splatter with old bills and monotone wallpapers, hangs a painting of a woman who lived there one hundred years ago. Her beach plum face peeks out from behind a black veil, a somber smile drawn on her pale, pink lips. Her dark eyes appear to be looking straight at you and yet they are slightly askew as if she was distracted by something in the far distance. Her right hand, the color of olives, holds a folded fan, posed and ready to drop at any moment as if lacking strength.

Ms. Ivy, was how everyone addressed her, was a kind, delicate woman whom was known to make pies that only taste sweet after the last bite. And she was well known for being an expert in gardening. After her husband, a dog trainer, died from poison ivy, she never came out of the house again. Neighbors said they heard screams coming from her house the night her husband died. There were rumors that she had killed him to be with her lover but there was no evidence to prove that.

Some said her ghost still haunts the place every now and then. If you ever drove pass the place, you could almost hear a whistle blowing as if her lover was still calling her name. If you dare to walk inside, you may just smell the scent of one of her cherry pies or hear her delicate voice singing a gray tune.


Friday 5: dog trainer, bills, beach, pie, whistle

Death by Consciousness

Josephine used to worked as a social worker but the stress had turned her into a nervous girl. One day she ended up in a run-down hotel room typing out her thoughts with demons along side her. She was unaware of anything outside her mind. Never once did she stop to sleep or to eat or even to go to the bathroom. Nothing could have break her from her spell. Not when she heard the beeper from her wrist watch telling her it's time to leave. And not even when the fire alarm rang throughout the air. Smoke came into the room through the windows and the cracks beneath the door but she continued typing, fingers pulsing on each key. When she finally finished, she sighed with relief. Finally she was free from her own thoughts. But soon her body could not support her. She melted into the dirty, green carpet, a useless body with a vivid mind. It was two days later that the maid came with a big mop, cleaning up the mess that was once Josephine.

Friday 5: social worker, mop, hotel room, beeper, fire alarm

Market

Down the supermarket isles, a little boy with a dirty red towel wrapped around his neck, pushes a cart full of torn pages of food ads like a child with a destiny. Traveling faster than necessary, he rolls down this way and that way, barely avoiding shoppers and food shelves as he laughs gleefully. Towards the ice cream isle, he paused to check out the sign with the singing teddy bear, taste samples of chocolate chip mint ice cream and mini hotdogs. Then he went on his way, turning just in time to miss the cart heading his direction, towards the back of the market. After going through the last isle, he turn around to see the mess that he had left behind, a perfect smile on his lips. But he soon realize he was only dreaming, still inside the cart while his mother keeps telling him to sit back down.


Friday 5: little boy, torn page, market, cart, dirt

Postcard

Veering towards land, a seashell covered in vines and rubber soles sits between the sand and the edge of the blue sea.

As I gathered up discarded soapboxes, comic books and magazines into a box, I saw the postcard that you sent me hanging by the fridge. Just as I was about to reach for it, it gingerly fell to the floor sliding underneath the fridge. As I crawled on my hands and knees to reach for it, I am reminded of the dental appointment that you will miss today.

I can feel the rough texture of the paper as I pulled it out. A few bits fell off, landing on the Spanish kitchen tiles that you so eagerly installed last spring. I opened all the cabinets and drawers but found no scotch tapes. The echoes of the drawers slamming shut rang through the air. And I knew then that it was finally over. It was only yesterday that I thought of you.

Spots of water fell upon the blue edge of the postcard as I stared at it. I realized they came from my eyes. For ten minutes I stood there crying, unsure why the tears came. But they soon stopped. I tucked the card into the back of my jean's pocket and proceeded to carry the box outside, dumping them into the silver trash can.

The postcard was the last part of you - which you have sent to me while you were on a business trip. I received it in the mail the day before you told me you've found someone else. I pulled it out of my pocket, stared at it for a moment, then tore it to pieces and dumping them into the can.


Friday 5: shell, comic book, discarded soapbox, rubber soles, postcard

Dream A Little Dream

my beating heart splinter
molding into distractions
votive fragments of longings
punctuate by a shiver down my back
blending into a little dream of you


Friday 5: splinter, distractions, molder, votive, punctuate

The Question

he slurs his words
mozzled in thought
a caprussule full of hazy maze
cacks ripple through his heart
his lips glureon together
but out blurt the question
jumbled up in its meaning
she stares eyes wide in bedevilment
he skrey around with his bended knee
closer to her ears
posing the question again
this time the words formed their meaning
she screams in fright
then collapse onto the floor
without an answer for him


Friday 5: caprussule, mozzle, cack, skrey, glureon

Two Polaroids

your sun brown eyes
squirting behind
bits of dark hair
dry brittle salty lips
revealing a bashful smile
aluminum foil memory
wrapped in blurry effigy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

slick black hair
immaculate smile
a vague look of coolness
concealed in false sincerity
a skunk that once crawled
from underneath brittle earth
always lost in brilliant calmness


Friday 5: brittle, aluminum foil, Polaroid, skunk, salt

Spring in New York

light drizzles
sprinkle the brick pavements
as I walk the streets
soaking in the rain of people and their fragrances
holding my avocado umbrella
closed in my hand

the smell of gasoline exhumes
from their opened underground caves
drowsing me
in their dreamlike smoke

crowds smother the sidewalks
lightly caressing each other's arms and shoulders
barely stirring
while lining up together
by the silver breakfast cart
the scent of hot coffee
drifting through the air

up above me
tree branches blanket the ceiling
of the wearisome sky
covering the hemisphere
in blue brown trilateral patterns

soon the sun begins to show its yellow head
lighting up store fronts and street vendors
changing the colors of the city

time seem to travel rapidly
everything suddenly moves in lighting speed
the sound of voices spring up with excitement
as the aroma of a new morning
descend upon us


My ode to my hometown, the place where I still live - New York City.
Friday 5: avocado, hemisphere, gasoline, ceiling, brick

Everlasting Beauty

a modern regal face
fresh from the dying past
drawn upon layers of asperities
quacky she dare not become
preying to your captive heart
winsome lips of cranberry
silver eyes burnt
with cognitive mischiefs
colored cheeks in crimson roses
pity your sacred heart
for it would fling
across the universe
merely to breath in
a bit of her everlasting beauty


Friday 5: fling, cranberry, winsome, prey, quacky

Walking Home

Street in Venice, 1882 by John Singer Sargent

Her faded yellow skirt barely touched the pavement as she walked the quiet streets home. Night began to fall forcing her to gathered her black coat tighter around her blocking the wind from seeping into her skin. The echo of a train momentarily broke the silent night as street lights were lit up by men in black coats. She quicken her strides, hiding her dark eyes behind her coat collars, her bruised red fingers holding on to her long dark hair and loosed red ribbon. Passing muddy white picket fences, ignoring stares from two drunken men simpering at her as they kissed their bottles, she sped up the pace again, almost running towards the vale of her streets. She sighed with relief at the sight of her house's brightly lit windows.


Friday 5: kiss, train, fence, vale, simper

On the train platform

On the train platform, he kissed her goodbye, his breath sinking into her chest, long and tender. She slowly left his arms and climbed onto the train, spreading her arms like wings, calling his name as the train began to move. He ran after her with his cheeks burning red but his eyes never left her face, mouthing the words, "I love you." She reciprocated by blowing air kisses that he tried to catch, lost his balance, tripped on a suitcase cart that sent him colliding with the concrete floor. He gingerly picked himself up, simpered and waved as her face disappeared in the train's mist. The train conductor fenced his laughter behind his notepad, knowing their vales of goodbyes every weekend.


Friday 5: kiss, train, fence, vale, simper

Among the rabble

a sylph
sparking with fizzy
having no suasion
freckled
with all the wrong verbs
she begins to wonder
is she among the rabble
of untamed strangers
always speaking
with no sound


Friday 5: sylph, rabble, fizzy, suasion, freckled.

Sundrenched World

he casually throws her books
out the window
towards the sundrenched world
boggle by their snake-like descend
he watch them
snugging his eyes
as they fall instead
onto the green hood of his unpaid car
the alarm burst through the quiet air
causing a rather unexpected racket


The title is from a song by Joshua Radin. Read other Friday 5 here. The words are, racket, snug, green, boggle, snake.

Stirred

strings of time buried
deep in the underground mural
appeared kempt for thousands of years
stirred by warring voices
it dilated and broke into two separate entities
colorful vinegar and particles
simultaneously exhumed from their pores
as they swam to shore
catching any breath they can reached

Friday 5: string, mural, kempt, dilated, vinegar

Black Dress

inflicted by his blunt comment
she blew her hair from her face
scudded away like a hammer without a handle
her agitation bursting to the brim
overflowing over the margin
and into the crevices of his forgotten words
he watched with a grin on his face
as her black dress swayed like a crow
a white stain shifting left and right

Friday 5: inflicted, agitation, scud, crow, margin

Rain

his lips travels upon her skin
his embrace foreign to her touch

daylight dust filters through the window
his touch cools as night falls

in the darkness she open her eyes
a small dent on an empty space next to her

no wailing heard through the walls
only an arithmetic sound of rain falling

she opens her window
her view skew by splashes of rain

its cool touches descend on her skin
settling like teardrops hiding her solitude


For Friday 5.

Best Friend

She was surprised by a distance whalesong, a sound so haunting yet so mesmerizing that it caused her to jumped in fright, falling into the river. He looked up to see her head just barely out of the water. As he ran towards her, he slipped on the aged earth but got back up on his feet in time to see her golden coat moving along down the river. The fluidity of a gray spot flashed before her eyes as she tried to stayed afloat, breathing in pieces of air whenever she managed to keep her head above the water. He waited for the right moment before jumping in, pulling her up before she can sink to the bottom. They moved like a pair of synchronized swimmers towards dry land with his arm around his furry, best friend.

This is for Friday 5.

The end of the breakup

In your burnt heart of sorrow, you lingered in the cracked lines of your despair. The keys to your cherry red heart no longer fitted. Discarded in the cold winds of winter with three little words, "I'm leaving you," it no longer resided in the same spot. A shift, a little to the left had been made. And yet you lingered there, in your broken home, tangled up in loose emotions.

It was three months ago that it happened.

He had cracked open a bottle of beer so casually, so unemotionally as he spoke to you at his place. He discarded the caps onto the floor along with burnt matches and cigarette butts. As he told you the reasons why, he continued to sipped bottles and bottles of beer as if it were any other day.

He asked for his keys back. You pulled it out of your purse, slowly preserving the moment of owning such object. He started to take them from you but you held them tight. He nearly ripped them away from your hands. His cheeks flushed cherry red by the gesture. You remember the day he gave them to you. It was your twentieth-seventh birthday and also the second anniversary that you were together. You cried tears of joy which he had casually brushed away with his fingertips.

After the last bottle of beer was gone, he grudgingly drove you home, blasting Elvis Presley on the radio, humming along to "Love me tender." You sat beside him, numbness taking over your body as you realized - he didn't want you anymore.

He said,"Bye" without looking at you and drove off just as you barely slammed the car door shut, hurrying away as if he was escaping something horrifying. You watched as the faded, green Honda disappeared into the cracked horizon.

As you approached your home, you noticed how smooth the pavement leading to your front door was and wondered why they never looked that way before. You also noticed your front door was now an odd shade of red. You couldn't remember what the color was before.

You fumbled your keys as you looked for the big, silver one. Your hands trembled as you turned the lock. You touched your cheeks only to realized it was wet. You flipped the switch but the light bulb burnt out after two seconds. You cursed the darkness.

You went to take a shower but halfway, the water suddenly turned bitter cold causing you to keep turning the faucets but the water remained cold. You finished up anyway.

Then the phone rang. It was him. He wanted his things back. He wants you to gather them up for him and that he will come to pick them up tomorrow morning. You hang up the phone, your anger slowly begun to surface.

You picked up objects that you knew belonged to him and threw them against your bedroom wall, turning them into million bits of scattered, un-mendable pieces.

You raged against his material leftovers until only there was one left - a plate with Elvis Presley's face that you had loosely painted on. It was a birthday gift for him from last year. He had said he loved it, being such a big Elvis fan. But he never took it home with him. It was always displayed on your dresser in your bedroom.

You stared at it for a while before throwing it onto the floor. You cut your hand on pieces of debris as you cleaned up the mess. You watched the blood slowly dripped onto your tan carpet. That's when you decided you need to destroyed everything, everything that was him.

Now your dark eyes no longer picture him coming back. Three months of solitude is enough for you. Now it's time to burn some hearts, crack some sorrow, get new keys, eat dessert top with millions of cherries and discard everything that doesn't make you happy.

This is for prompts from 3WW and Friday 5.

The Chase

rushing through the limitless night
with eyes straight ahead
awake but half dreaming

driving towards the unknown
forgetting how to dream
creating false illusions
chasing false prophecy

speeding along like a bullet train
letting bitter desires sweep us in
moving faster as time goes slower

catching up only to let them slip
through the disguised dreams of a memory
laying in a field of dandelions under a glowing sun
that turn into the yellow moon

cohering all our scattered dreams while they laid sleeping
watching through the transparent glass of yesterday
clouding over by our very breath

immerse in this beautiful darkness
waiting for sleep to come and stop tomorrow from chasing us



This is for prompts from Writers Island, 3WW and Friday 5.