SoHo

Rocks against cast irons, subway

stations filled with being from

top to floor, exiting on past the

platform, reaching for above, light,

air, the buildings touched by angels,

heaven galore. How could humans

makes things such as these?

  • Julia St. Clair, ©2017

    *Image from Google Image search

Daily Prompt: Protest

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Speak– utter the words which press hard against the veins in my bare neck. I seethe in anger as I watch her bat her fake eyelashes up and down, acting like the self entitled princess she thinks she is. Pop places his hand on hers, the wrinkled cracks looking odd against the youthful manicure Stevie Wonder could see the difference. Middle age versus young, wisdom versus foolishness, and vice versa, I presume. After all, he asked her to be here in the first place, though I know his conscious weighed him down, as I laid his eyes upon her bulging belly. The only part of her that gained weight, she chose the perfect dress to form fit her prize for conquering my father, a surprise sibling whom she’d groom to take mine and my siblings’ places. I would it, this newfound brother or sister of mine no doubt, but I hate her. I will always hate her.

Words can say nothing– the look in my eyes says it all. That and the empty spaces where James and Rachel were to have stood. Protest. They did something I did not do. Protest, though my ocean blue eyes speak lower than any volume an Ozzy Osbourne concert could.

via Daily Prompt: Protest

Daily Prompt: Sated

Sated mind, the memory

returns to me thus lost forth

finding deep in the embedded

sea, the funnel, the black hole

of consciousness preparing to

satisfy me thus the day the fortune,

fame, the face behind the name,

memory takes on living flesh

bound to return thus one day.

Return to me, ritorna me forever

and ever evermore.

  • Julia St Clair ©2016

via Daily Prompt: Sated

Daily Prompt: Aromatic

Aromatic– the scent of pine when I

greet your face. Aromatic– the Burberry

cologne lain abandoned on your dresser

draws. Aromatic– the Playboy decoy which

usurped Burberry’s place on your clothes, your

skin, your heart, my mind. Though the years

passed, we long parted, the aromatic aroma of

you haunts my gracious mind.

  • Julia St Clair©2016

via Daily Prompt: Aromatic

Daily Prompt: Filthy

“You. Finally,” the piece of shit lawyer purred at me, fancied up in his red office.

“Yes,” I muttered. “My brother-in-law…he recommended you.”

“Aw, Roger! From the stories he told me, I knew you’d end up in my office one day.”

He puffs on his cigar, smacking the point with his giant fingers, the ash falling hard against the golden tray. I awkwardly sit back into the leather chair, still hoping and praying I wake up and get out of here. I blink. Still– nothing.

“Well Starr, looks like we got good news. He left, but never sued you for divorce. You can through him in court on count of abandonment, not only for yourself, but that of your children–”

“Child,” I correct him.

“Um,” the lawyer laughs. “I was informed that’d be two children involved in the mat–”

“Well you’re mistaken,” I snap. “There were supposed to be two, but I miscarried.”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Lawyer ponders, his state turning from menacing to concerned. “I’m very sorry. I hope you weren’t too far along.”

I pick my head up, staring at him as though my eyes will grab his out of the sockets and devour them up.

“It was the night I caught them” I confess. “He bailed on the ultrasound appointment to be with her. To fuck her. Marnie– my assistant. My God damn teenage assistant. He didn’t even care when the pains started. He scolded me for ruining ‘their’ plans and just left me there. They had to get him out; ‘its too soon,’ I protested. ‘I’m barely six months.’ They wouldn’t listen; they prepped the incubator and everything, preparing for a premature birth. But TJ was dead before he came out. TJ– I named him after his father. Like his father, my son was dead.”

The lawyer straightens his glasses, gaping in shock. Something tells me he’s never heard this much from his clients. Another instinct gathers that this is his golden case. He knew it’d be good for him, but never this good for him. Good for him, horrifying for me.

“Starr…Estrella, let’s say you were in a courtroom describing what you just told me. If there was one word to convey how you felt during all this, the realization your husband was going with your under aged assistant, the early labor, him leaving you during it, the shocking miscarriage. If you could narrow down your experience into one word, one word for the court, what would it be?”

“Filthy,” I cringe. “It made me feel filthy.”

via Daily Prompt: Filthy

Daily Prompt: Fish

It was our first meal in Catania. Our first authentic taste of Italia, of Sicilia, of Europe and the Mediterranean in general, and our appetites applauded with joy for dinner. I dreamt of this moment for many years– being in the motherland, her warmth, her sights, her dining. Warmth in Sicily was identical of that of Florida or California, but more intense, more pompous and ecstatic. Her sights overwhelmed the mind and soul while simultaneously putting them at peace– I close my eyes and am transformed back to our visit to Taormina, to Siracusa, to seeing the giant Mount Etna in the distance. Today would be Palermo, then on to Agrigento to see the Valle dei Templi, an instense journey leading to the exhausting end of its perfect beginning.

Donnie and I looked at the food before us puzzled. It reeks, I think to myself. It looks divine, but smells ghastly.

“Honey, I think there’s something wrong with the food,” I mutter, trying to spin my fork in whatever I’m preparing to insert into my mouth.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” he laughs. “It’s just fish.”

“FISH?”

I throw my fork to the side, seething with disgust. Fish? How I hate fish! I was never a fan. Everytime I saw it at Christmas, walked by it in the aisle in A&P, saw one staring at me at the New York Aquarium, I thought of only one thing– the smell. Why? Because it smells like something I…dare not say. I dare not mention.

“Maria, it’s not going to hurt you, and you’d be insulting our hosts if you didn’t eat.”

“Well, they insult me by serving it! I specially mentioned no fish whatsoever.”

“Honey, we’re on an island. What do they eat on islands?”

“Oh fuck.”

“Exactly. Try it, I’m sure it’ll do you good.”

I gaze down fearing the gag reflex I’m about to have as soon as I taste this gull. Preparing for the doom that is about to come to my mouth and stomach, I cross myself when I see the next course is already being served– pasta.

How adorable it looked! Pink sauce, maybe it’s like a penne ala vodka. Donnie noticed the joy flowing from my smile, and I raised my glass to finally toast the first night.

“To us…to Sicily…to my motherland!”

“Here, here!”

After toasting our wine, I took a big bite of my food….ewwww! I’m coughing all at once, grabbing the nearest napkin I can. At first, only the few bits I ate came out before vomit the menace followed. I didn’t care that I was embarrassing myself or my husband on our honeymoon. Screw this, I don’t care what people say, I felt like I just ate a part of myself.

Our waiter comes up, offering in Italian if everything is alright.

“Excuse us,” Donnie replies. “My wife, fish upsets her stomach.”

“Ah, yes, Signore, I’m seen it many times with outsiders,” he beams. “The fish, the taste is too strong, too foreign, unless their digestion already favors the sea. We have a joke here in Sicily about the fish. It’s very funny. A blind man walks by the docks to the fishermen. He calls, ‘good morning, ladies’ before waltzing off.”

Donnie’s face explodes, and he can hardly contain himself. The waiter at first joins in before awkwardly leaving us.

“Maria, oh my God Maria, I get it now! I get it now!”

“It’s about time you know why I hate fucking fish.”

via Daily Prompt: Fish

Daily Prompt: Vegetal

Johny jolts out of the bed before being put down by the straps which hold his body in place.

“What are you doing?” Amy yells, harassing the nurse in her broken New York accent. “Ya tying my hubby down, ya animal.”

“Ms. DiBennetto, Mr. Phillips is not your husband and I told you time and time again it’s an involuntary reaction it doesn’t mean anything.”

It doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean anything? Alright lady, let’s talk about what “doesn’t mean anything.”

  • The fact that I woke up to my fiancée and parents crying over me and couldn’t put my arms around them for comfort.
  • You know what, I couldn’t even calm them down, either. Know why? I can’t talk, numb nuts.
  • To make matters worse, the doc says my condition in front of my family and I see for myself the fear and horror in their faces. But I can’t do anything.
  • The fact that my parents feud so much over “what I would want” that they may get divorced.
  • To top it off, Amy and my best friend Joey, the only two people who really know what I’d want, find documented proof in AIM messages from when we were in college but it doesn’t mean anything because they’re not “next of kin.”
  • That my Amy would’ve been my “next of kin” instead of my useless feuding folks had I not convinced her out of a Vegas wedding.
  • That I’m even here at all.

So ok lady. My involuntary action “doesn’t mean anything” just because I’m immobile to you. Hey, I can’t help it that that car came speeding at me over 90 mph. I can’t help it that I got hurt. And I can’t help it that I’m here, now, in a vegetative state or, as I simply call it, vegetal. So yeah, bite me, lady. You, the doc, the lawyers, bite me, and let me lay here in the peaceful company of my tortured mind.

via Daily Prompt: Vegetal

Daily Prompt: Irksome

Irksome– irritating, annoying, the word used to describe perhaps the screaming baby on the plane or the rude woman on the subway who gets her kicks from initiating confrontations with people.

Irksome. Even the sound of this little word is annoying, isn’t it? Well what you’ll see today folks is a world where “irksome” rears itself on its head in world where ghastly becomes imitating, obsolete becomes essential and vexatious becomes voluminous.

Meet George G. Parker of from Colonial Fields.  He drinks, smokes, gets joy from stealing lollipops from children and farting in the faces of little old ladies. The laugh he has is so callous and obnoxious that it causes even the strongest of temper-glass to break and shatter out of existence. Yet George G. Parker is the mayor of this strange town, and oddly enough is married with a beautiful life and three adorable yet little delinquent darlings of his own because in this world, his word, irksome is beauty and annoyance is treasure. In the twilight zone.

 

via Daily Prompt: Irksome