Saturday's Storyteller: Lava
Lava
by Belinda Roddie
We meet in a small restaurant, set with adobe walls and benches for chairs. Two men sing softly together in a corner. We do not eat - only drink. And we talk into the late hours of the night.
You remind me that you do not love me. Never have, never will. And I accept that, for at least some time. You have always been so beautiful, in your spectacles, your palms taut against the table, ready to flip it and wreak havoc when one least expects. But you are calm. A mother now. Happily married and unwilling to change that for anything.
Love flows, and burns, like lava.
When we exit the restaurant, the city is on fire. The graffiti on gray walls tells us the gospel truth: That old actors are replaced by new ones, their contributions easily substituted. Songs are sung by new vocalists, new orators for sweet or somber epistles. Nearby, a young woman arrives at a broken down hostel. A man attempts to woo her. Assail her. But he does not know the meaning of the word accost.
I read the graffiti as I leave you. Words are crossed out. All that remains is Lava.
The L's are crisscrossed, like tic tac toe.
The lines are blurred despite the pseudo-permanence of aerosol.
Nearby, a screen on a billboard shows a new American Gothic - the man looks liike Anthony Fauci. He warned us of the plague long ago, and many of us suffered from a dead ear.
Ears that do not pick up music tend to cause agony for the lack of listening.
Lava. Lava. Lava.
The rest of the song is gibberish that I cannot translate.
You have returned home.
I remain in the crib of cerebral ecstasy until morning grazes my lips like a limp lover's longing.
This week's prompt was brought to you by another dream. Yay, subconscience!
by Belinda Roddie
We meet in a small restaurant, set with adobe walls and benches for chairs. Two men sing softly together in a corner. We do not eat - only drink. And we talk into the late hours of the night.
You remind me that you do not love me. Never have, never will. And I accept that, for at least some time. You have always been so beautiful, in your spectacles, your palms taut against the table, ready to flip it and wreak havoc when one least expects. But you are calm. A mother now. Happily married and unwilling to change that for anything.
Love flows, and burns, like lava.
When we exit the restaurant, the city is on fire. The graffiti on gray walls tells us the gospel truth: That old actors are replaced by new ones, their contributions easily substituted. Songs are sung by new vocalists, new orators for sweet or somber epistles. Nearby, a young woman arrives at a broken down hostel. A man attempts to woo her. Assail her. But he does not know the meaning of the word accost.
I read the graffiti as I leave you. Words are crossed out. All that remains is Lava.
The L's are crisscrossed, like tic tac toe.
The lines are blurred despite the pseudo-permanence of aerosol.
Nearby, a screen on a billboard shows a new American Gothic - the man looks liike Anthony Fauci. He warned us of the plague long ago, and many of us suffered from a dead ear.
Ears that do not pick up music tend to cause agony for the lack of listening.
Lava. Lava. Lava.
The rest of the song is gibberish that I cannot translate.
You have returned home.
I remain in the crib of cerebral ecstasy until morning grazes my lips like a limp lover's longing.
This week's prompt was brought to you by another dream. Yay, subconscience!
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