dip a paddle deep in time’s river
mirrored wormholes lure through
tomorrow’s stars yesterday
great granddaughter tells tales
of glass encased cities spread
over crumbled dead Earth
eyes wend a destruction story
already several months in
older than you she begins,
“It starts with a slow dying ocean,
until all that’s left is a shell. . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Visit Writer’s Island for more interesting, bizarre, and delightful takes on the prompt: Time travel.
For a little something different, visit Prompts for G10(linked on blog sidebar).
21 August 2010
20 August 2010
Heaven's Peak
my two men break trail to heaven through brush over deadfall up up up branches furrow skin blood drips a story of ascent marking machismo bonding father & son feeding Earth stand tall breathe thin summit air raise your arms to unrivaled views honor your mother beat a track back home down down down where blistered feet breathe relief and red trails blazed in heaven razor your shins secrets spin around sweet enigmatic eyes mysteries revealed if you only touch the sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The prompt for Poets United Think Tank Thursday was pain. When my husband Len and stepson Arthur came home from climbing Heaven's Peak in Glacier National Park, they were in pain. Although this isn't a piece about pain, I started writing it thinking about the state Len's shins upon their return.
19 August 2010
dispersal
silken stream moisten my spirit soften its pineapple thorns plant me naked in baked fields bouldered with broken cars near Juniper’s deep-rooted soul hose the spot make me summer clay shape me into earthen pots render me useful hand blown zeroes whisper infinity, infinity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is one of two pieces I wrote for the Big Tent Poetry prompt wordle. Visit the Big Tent link to read some more poems. You'll be glad you did.
I wrote one other piece earlier in the week using this wordle. It's called Huh?
18 August 2010
Echoes of Summer / ABC Wednesday E
echoes of summer
ripple in snapshots
still water
laughing girls
lovely lilies
lilt a leitmotif
lingering images
echoing summer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to ABC Wednesday! Be sure and visit their site for more Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.
17 August 2010
coffee & cake: a soul spilling
At Grandmother’s kitchen table
cardamom coffee cake splits to
expose cinnamon walnut veins
twining through moist yellow fields.
French pressed grinds infuse darkness
that heavy cream clouds unfurl.
My heart spills concentric rings
across Grandmother’s smooth water soul.
She unbolts my floodgates
to decontaminate discontent;
she verifies my life.
We sit in satisfied stillness.
Out the window, a warbler sings.
At Grandmother’s kitchen table,
hearts and stomachs purr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to We Write Poems for the picture prompt.
The picture is Mom's House by Sarah Regnier.
cardamom coffee cake splits to
expose cinnamon walnut veins
twining through moist yellow fields.
French pressed grinds infuse darkness
that heavy cream clouds unfurl.
My heart spills concentric rings
across Grandmother’s smooth water soul.
She unbolts my floodgates
to decontaminate discontent;
she verifies my life.
We sit in satisfied stillness.
Out the window, a warbler sings.
At Grandmother’s kitchen table,
hearts and stomachs purr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to We Write Poems for the picture prompt.
The picture is Mom's House by Sarah Regnier.
16 August 2010
Huh?
hose off your pineapple dude
knock off the silk mumbo jumbo
you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference?
the baked days of summer are blown
the gig is up
moisten your pencil lead
plant yourself deep
pot’s not gonna save you now
stop driving your brain car
through barren tundra
learn to deal
chill
get a towel and
dry off
~~~~~~~~~~~
This came out as fast as my fingers can type. Bizarre, but it makes sense to me.
My only prompt to myself aside from a wordle at Big Tent, was to write something in an angry tone. I'm not sure this is really angry...but that was my starting intent.
If you haven't already, check out the prompt at Big Tent Poetry. That way you can contribute your own whacked writing. Or perhaps something deeply moving and profound. Either way, wordles are fun. I'll try my hand at another for Friday's posting under the Big Tent.
I also posted this in Poets United Poetry Pantry. Go there to check out some awesome work!
knock off the silk mumbo jumbo
you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference?
the baked days of summer are blown
the gig is up
moisten your pencil lead
plant yourself deep
pot’s not gonna save you now
stop driving your brain car
through barren tundra
learn to deal
chill
get a towel and
dry off
~~~~~~~~~~~
This came out as fast as my fingers can type. Bizarre, but it makes sense to me.
My only prompt to myself aside from a wordle at Big Tent, was to write something in an angry tone. I'm not sure this is really angry...but that was my starting intent.
If you haven't already, check out the prompt at Big Tent Poetry. That way you can contribute your own whacked writing. Or perhaps something deeply moving and profound. Either way, wordles are fun. I'll try my hand at another for Friday's posting under the Big Tent.
I also posted this in Poets United Poetry Pantry. Go there to check out some awesome work!
15 August 2010
what i see
Out my front window
Hill 57 rises above houses
rust colored boulders
pepper summer dried grasses
neighbor voice echoes,
“Useta be injuns lived on that hill,
damn squatters.”
Little Shell tribe
of the Chippewa Cree
seeks federal recognition
landless they hit fences
honor denied
people denied
spirits dance
through grasses
atop 57
strong
proud
sweating story in glory of place
a man speaks of
one room plywood shacks housing
12-18 people
living breathing starving
denied
walking the dogs
through remnants in 57’s low spots
toilet seats, high chairs,
stoves and tvs
debris reminds me
this is my lifetime
this is my world's
response to people
poverty
hunger
lack of recognition
We are sorry
but you
do not
exist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Sunday Scribblings for more responses to the prompt: view.
Hill 57 rises above houses
rust colored boulders
pepper summer dried grasses
neighbor voice echoes,
“Useta be injuns lived on that hill,
damn squatters.”
Little Shell tribe
of the Chippewa Cree
seeks federal recognition
landless they hit fences
honor denied
people denied
spirits dance
through grasses
atop 57
strong
proud
sweating story in glory of place
a man speaks of
one room plywood shacks housing
12-18 people
living breathing starving
denied
walking the dogs
through remnants in 57’s low spots
toilet seats, high chairs,
stoves and tvs
debris reminds me
this is my lifetime
this is my world's
response to people
poverty
hunger
lack of recognition
We are sorry
but you
do not
exist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Sunday Scribblings for more responses to the prompt: view.
Family Show
scissors rip wrists until
blood pulses red streams
that pool in linoleum shallows
silver flashes in a falling hand
eyes hollow
everything stops
outside my window
rain comes
rain goes
~~~~~~~~~~
The first stanza is a poem created while I watched Law & Order on American TV. This is a show that airs during top family viewing hours. I am not sure of the title and am willing to entertain suggestions.
My intent with the piece was to make every word count. So it’s sparse.
Thank you to the Poet’s United Poetry Pantry for providing a space to share this poem.
blood pulses red streams
that pool in linoleum shallows
silver flashes in a falling hand
eyes hollow
everything stops
outside my window
rain comes
rain goes
~~~~~~~~~~
The first stanza is a poem created while I watched Law & Order on American TV. This is a show that airs during top family viewing hours. I am not sure of the title and am willing to entertain suggestions.
My intent with the piece was to make every word count. So it’s sparse.
Thank you to the Poet’s United Poetry Pantry for providing a space to share this poem.
14 August 2010
"The office doesn't teach you, I do."
teeth set against me
inception of initial angst
remains hidden
behind a laser gaze
burning holes in the wall of our classroom
while the rest of us carry on
you’ll show me
(and absorb what we do through osmosis
just wait
one day participation will surprise you
when it springs without thought
from your mouth)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Writer's Island for more responses to the prompt, inception.
inception of initial angst
remains hidden
behind a laser gaze
burning holes in the wall of our classroom
while the rest of us carry on
you’ll show me
(and absorb what we do through osmosis
just wait
one day participation will surprise you
when it springs without thought
from your mouth)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Writer's Island for more responses to the prompt, inception.
12 August 2010
may hope spark in hollow eyes
in less than two weeks
Teacher Me will be on stage
for many pairs of eyes
eyes with
stories behind them
stories temporarily sealed
in stone cold pupils
eyes with
stories inside them
stories shooting daggers
through Reader Me’s heart
eyes with stories
waiting to be screamed
stories flowing freely
from far too few
little writers waiting to
set words to page
to let it out
to tell stories of moments of lives
all eyes on me
I will find a way to rivet you
to make you want to tell your story
until you can hardly wait to create
to write what could quite possibly be
the greatest story ever told
it’s the dead eyes that worry me
the eyes with nothing there
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece is in response to the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: The Eyes.
Teacher Me will be on stage
for many pairs of eyes
eyes with
stories behind them
stories temporarily sealed
in stone cold pupils
eyes with
stories inside them
stories shooting daggers
through Reader Me’s heart
eyes with stories
waiting to be screamed
stories flowing freely
from far too few
little writers waiting to
set words to page
to let it out
to tell stories of moments of lives
all eyes on me
I will find a way to rivet you
to make you want to tell your story
until you can hardly wait to create
to write what could quite possibly be
the greatest story ever told
it’s the dead eyes that worry me
the eyes with nothing there
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece is in response to the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: The Eyes.
treasure, black & white
A turquoise
metal
filigree
frame
holds the first picture
of you and me.
Look at you.
So tiny.
So new.
I tried to
smell you into me as
everything about you
enveloped who I am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Cynthia Short, who provided the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week, to write about a possession. I chose this picture because I needed to write something affirming.
11 August 2010
parasites
I am afraid Enlightened people, thinkers will opt out of childbirth knowing Earth won’t sustain growing populations. I am afraid welfare doles will continue to grow teaching children to rely on a system to hate a system to believe a system owes them. I am afraid that rather than relying on themselves to contribute to society, they will expect society to contribute to them. I am afraid education lacks importance to illiterate masses taught to hate the hand that feeds them. I am afraid that Muslims will breed more Muslims Christians will breed more Christians Mormons will breed more Mormons Jews will breed more Jews Athiests will breed more Atheists Welfare moms will breed more Welfare moms and the walls won’t tumble down. One against another people break turtle’s shell. I am afraid that our mother grows weary. Without her, we are nothing. Without her, we are nothing. Without her, we are nothing. I am afraid. We are killing our mother. We drain her oily hollows. We are too many ravenous mouths. We vomit her contents in greed. We are parasites We. Smell the sulfur rising from her inner thighs. Watch her wither slowly beneath deep polluted skies. I am afraid. If you love our mother, speak out. Be a warrior. Change the world. Taint the milk supply. Sterilize the masses. Turtles need clean water to strengthen mother’s shell. I am afraid. Humanity puts itself before everything else. Where does that leave our mother?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Mallery at We Write Poems for the prompt:
For this prompt let’s define the topic to be a list of “things you’re afraid of”, or alternately, “things you’d never do”.
05 August 2010
metaphor
The Big Tent Poetry prompt this week had poets check back on their previous dozen or so poems and write something different. Metaphor is different for me in two ways. I wrote it with the intention of creating a metaphor for the prompt itself. I also played with the structure of the piece. I don't do a great deal of either. Formatting text for blogger can mystify me so I used my computer's snipping tool to take a picture of the piece and ensure its integrity. (That's how I turned the downside-up, upside-down, too...pictures can be manipulated.)
Through the process, I explored the way I use metaphor in my writing. More often than not they come naturally. To force the process is something I'll try again.
Thanks for the prompt, Deb!
04 August 2010
ABC Wednesday C Refrigerator Canyon & Caves
I took these pictures in July 2010 in Montana's Helena National Forest. The limestone formations create Refrigerator Canyon, which is typically 20-30 degrees cooler than the outside temperature. Carved through limestone by a small mountain stream, the canyon is 10-feet wide and 200-feet tall. It cools when air moves through the canyon and evaporates water from the stream. The creek is high enough this year that parts of the trail beyond the canyon are washed out.
This is one of the walls of the canyon. Do these caves connect? Intuition tells me yes. If I visit again, I'll go when the sun is higher in the sky to see if it provides any clue.
This little cave is on the canyon wall opposite the one pictured above. The dark stuff way in the back center is a patch of bat guano. Bat guano contains guanine, a key ingredient in mascara. Yes ladies, some mascara is made from bat shit. Don't worry, I'm sure it's sterilized. Below you'll find a close-up of a patch for your viewing pleasure. ;-)
You can see these caves way over to the left on the picture above with the possible connecting caves. I think they look like lungs or maybe turkey legs. All these caves got me wishing I was a little critter, so I could check out inside. Spelunking isn't really my thing. I like to see the wide and wild world, not descend into its depths. I'll save that for my final curtain call. Thanks for stopping by to visit. Your comments make my day! Please be sure to visit ABC Wednesday for more explorations of the letter C in picture and word.
03 August 2010
Danny the Woodsman
Gruffling snuffling snoring snorts
brought Danny the Woodsman near
to the cottage of widow Johnson,
window glass against his ear.
Sounds that did not seem human
made Danny peek inside
where whatever lay in the widow’s bed
bore a hairy bristled hide.
The woodsman pulled his knife from its sheath,
exposing its silver bright shine
he snuck in the cottage and sliced the wolf
and saw Little Red inside.
She twisted herself up from his stomach
breathing and laughing and free
while Danny helped her Grandmother
disengage from the wolf’s debris.
Together the trio commenced
to fill the wolf’s belly with stones
then the widow stitched him together
and now he’s a pile of bones.
Danny the Woodsman received no acclaim
for freeing the fabled twosome
though he won the heart of Little Red
when he freed her, gastric and gruesome.
They settled down with Grandmother
in her cottage near the wood.
The pile of stones and bones out front
kept wolves away for good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Irene Toh at We Write Poems for the prompt:
“Write a poem that revisits the Red Riding Hood fairy tale. You can change the story, or question the assumptions behind the fairy tale, eg why doesn’t the wolf eat Red Riding Hood in the forest when he first met her?, why does the author allow fantasy, such as that the wolf can be cut up and the grandmother and the Red Riding Hood emerge unhurt, or wonder what Red Riding Hood stands for, such as if wearing a red hood is significant, or question the innocence of Red Riding Hood, eg why does she not go straight to grandmother’s house as her mother instructed but chose to wander? Or you can revisit another fairy tale altogether!”
This was difficult for me, until I took the children’s rhyme route. I also read the Brothers Grimm version of the story here. The huntsman received little notoriety for saving the day, so I focused on him, but changed him to a woodsman.
brought Danny the Woodsman near
to the cottage of widow Johnson,
window glass against his ear.
Sounds that did not seem human
made Danny peek inside
where whatever lay in the widow’s bed
bore a hairy bristled hide.
The woodsman pulled his knife from its sheath,
exposing its silver bright shine
he snuck in the cottage and sliced the wolf
and saw Little Red inside.
She twisted herself up from his stomach
breathing and laughing and free
while Danny helped her Grandmother
disengage from the wolf’s debris.
Together the trio commenced
to fill the wolf’s belly with stones
then the widow stitched him together
and now he’s a pile of bones.
Danny the Woodsman received no acclaim
for freeing the fabled twosome
though he won the heart of Little Red
when he freed her, gastric and gruesome.
They settled down with Grandmother
in her cottage near the wood.
The pile of stones and bones out front
kept wolves away for good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Irene Toh at We Write Poems for the prompt:
“Write a poem that revisits the Red Riding Hood fairy tale. You can change the story, or question the assumptions behind the fairy tale, eg why doesn’t the wolf eat Red Riding Hood in the forest when he first met her?, why does the author allow fantasy, such as that the wolf can be cut up and the grandmother and the Red Riding Hood emerge unhurt, or wonder what Red Riding Hood stands for, such as if wearing a red hood is significant, or question the innocence of Red Riding Hood, eg why does she not go straight to grandmother’s house as her mother instructed but chose to wander? Or you can revisit another fairy tale altogether!”
This was difficult for me, until I took the children’s rhyme route. I also read the Brothers Grimm version of the story here. The huntsman received little notoriety for saving the day, so I focused on him, but changed him to a woodsman.
nunca mas juntos POW # 14
for t. c. one last time we fall into bed and heave an ending to us spent, I look at you still beside me hermoso separado dormido surfing down wispy cirrus clouds our dream selves talk about friendship and love You say, “We’ll float apart now, but we will both still float.” I say, “Sing for me one last time.” “Chantilly lace, with a pretty face…” your singing stuns me awake “Were we just . . .” I pause to look for words “. . . in the sky?” You answer, “Yeah, we’ll float apart now, but we’ll both still float.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rallentanda had poets write pieces with a Spanish flair. Nunca mas juntos means, never again together. Visit Rallentanda for a peek at Antoino Banderas, and more takes on the prompt.
02 August 2010
Microfiction Monday #42
AJ promised me that the new house would be perfect. Yeah, if I were a deer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my first post at Microfiction Monday. Visit the link for a plethora of delightful takes on the prompt.
01 August 2010
Locked in Freedom
The lock covers Amanda's mind. It stares at her everywhere she goes, her own private eye. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Excuse me, Miss, uh--your bag." Cheezums, Amanda almost walked right through the airport scanner. She hands it to security and smiles, "Sorry about that. My mind is a million miles away." He smiles back, like everyone does when she flashes her perfect row of braces free teeth. Everyone except Billy. "Uh, Miss...the lock?" Confused, the lock in her head closes. She looks at security, holding up her bag. Amanda pulls the chain from her neck and hands it to security. "The red one," she says. Security opens her bag, rifles through it, hands it back. "Have a nice flight, Miss."
With an hour to kill before boarding Amanda buys the latest gossip rag, and finds a chair in a corner, away from the throngs of people passing through the terminal on their way away, like her. She wonders if all locks look like eyes...if there's a reason this lock looked like an eye...if she'd be haunted every day she breathed. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Is that this week's Go Gossip Go?" A voice brought her back. Amanda looks up at a girl, about 12 dressed to the nines.
"There a party I don't know about?" Amanda says, looking her up and down, trying not to laugh.
"Enough with the wisecracks, smartass, I'm going from one rich parent to the other. A bizarre war wages between them. Who can dress me better? My mother actually hired me a dresser. A dresser! I am THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, I CAN DRESS MYSELF. Bet you're glad you said anything now, huh....Is that this week's Go Gossip GO? Or do you want to hear more about my enthralling life running from parent to parent in the richest of circumstance"
"Uh here...sorry for the wisecrack." Amanda sits back, tries to meditate, but can't shake the image of the lock. If she watches the girl read, maybe the eye will disappear. The girl lifts her head and laughs, looks at Amanda, "This is some good shit. People are sure stupid, listen to this one. She starts to read. 'Living on his boat The Hornet, American playwright Jonathon Henchion…" Amanda wonders if her face will grace the cover of Go, Gossip, Go...but no, she is small potatoes in a world of Henchions “…If the world finds out, may my boat explode.' Can you believe it? He says that, then his boat explodes, with him on it. Do you think it was a set-up?" Amanda sits there, quiet. "Well I know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says." Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Don't YOU want to know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says."
"Huh?" Amanda turns to the girl, "I want to know who in their right mind would name a kid Gravy Train." She has no idea what the girl is talking about.
"That's not the point, it's his nickname. What he always says is,” she slows down and tries to sound mysterious. “Words once spoken take on a power of their own. You be careful Shania, he says to me, any word you say has power, it can make you, or it can break you."
"How old is this Gravy Train Jones?"
"32. He's gay. He's my dresser."
Amanda laughs. "He's right, you know. Gravy Train. That's why I prefer to sit in silence, so nothing life changing can come out."
"Can I ask you something?" Shania says.
"Sure."
"When you were sitting there, before I walked over. You looked so sad, or worried, or angry, or I don't know, I thought maybe, ...uh...haunted? Anyway, I was just gonna walk on by, when I got a glimpse of something, above your head? It was hovering there, like a ghost or something."
Amanda's heart is racing, it's beat is deafening her. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "What was it? What did you see?"
"It looked like an eye, or maybe a lock or something, I couldn't tell for sure."
Groggy, Amanda opens her eyes. The room starts swirling. "You passed out Miss. This is the airport holding area for sick passengers."
She sits up, "I'm not sick, I need to be on that plane, I need..."
"Miss, the plane is gone." He put his hand on hers to comfort her. "The police are waiting outside to speak with you. I'll get them now."
The police ascertain her identity and show Amanda a picture. "Do you know what this is?"
"It looks like a trunk," she says.
"Have you seen it before?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what it contains?"
"Yes, I do. I do know."
"Well?"
“That box contains my freedom, or I thought it did, until its eyeball lock started hovering above my head. Can you see it there?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Willow over at Magpie Tales for the picture prompt.
With an hour to kill before boarding Amanda buys the latest gossip rag, and finds a chair in a corner, away from the throngs of people passing through the terminal on their way away, like her. She wonders if all locks look like eyes...if there's a reason this lock looked like an eye...if she'd be haunted every day she breathed. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Is that this week's Go Gossip Go?" A voice brought her back. Amanda looks up at a girl, about 12 dressed to the nines.
"There a party I don't know about?" Amanda says, looking her up and down, trying not to laugh.
"Enough with the wisecracks, smartass, I'm going from one rich parent to the other. A bizarre war wages between them. Who can dress me better? My mother actually hired me a dresser. A dresser! I am THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, I CAN DRESS MYSELF. Bet you're glad you said anything now, huh....Is that this week's Go Gossip GO? Or do you want to hear more about my enthralling life running from parent to parent in the richest of circumstance"
"Uh here...sorry for the wisecrack." Amanda sits back, tries to meditate, but can't shake the image of the lock. If she watches the girl read, maybe the eye will disappear. The girl lifts her head and laughs, looks at Amanda, "This is some good shit. People are sure stupid, listen to this one. She starts to read. 'Living on his boat The Hornet, American playwright Jonathon Henchion…" Amanda wonders if her face will grace the cover of Go, Gossip, Go...but no, she is small potatoes in a world of Henchions “…If the world finds out, may my boat explode.' Can you believe it? He says that, then his boat explodes, with him on it. Do you think it was a set-up?" Amanda sits there, quiet. "Well I know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says." Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Don't YOU want to know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says."
"Huh?" Amanda turns to the girl, "I want to know who in their right mind would name a kid Gravy Train." She has no idea what the girl is talking about.
"That's not the point, it's his nickname. What he always says is,” she slows down and tries to sound mysterious. “Words once spoken take on a power of their own. You be careful Shania, he says to me, any word you say has power, it can make you, or it can break you."
"How old is this Gravy Train Jones?"
"32. He's gay. He's my dresser."
Amanda laughs. "He's right, you know. Gravy Train. That's why I prefer to sit in silence, so nothing life changing can come out."
"Can I ask you something?" Shania says.
"Sure."
"When you were sitting there, before I walked over. You looked so sad, or worried, or angry, or I don't know, I thought maybe, ...uh...haunted? Anyway, I was just gonna walk on by, when I got a glimpse of something, above your head? It was hovering there, like a ghost or something."
Amanda's heart is racing, it's beat is deafening her. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "What was it? What did you see?"
"It looked like an eye, or maybe a lock or something, I couldn't tell for sure."
Groggy, Amanda opens her eyes. The room starts swirling. "You passed out Miss. This is the airport holding area for sick passengers."
She sits up, "I'm not sick, I need to be on that plane, I need..."
"Miss, the plane is gone." He put his hand on hers to comfort her. "The police are waiting outside to speak with you. I'll get them now."
The police ascertain her identity and show Amanda a picture. "Do you know what this is?"
"It looks like a trunk," she says.
"Have you seen it before?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what it contains?"
"Yes, I do. I do know."
"Well?"
“That box contains my freedom, or I thought it did, until its eyeball lock started hovering above my head. Can you see it there?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Willow over at Magpie Tales for the picture prompt.
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