Jamie roamed the streets flashing her body at slow moving cars. She is hungry as are the other woman and men who walks these streets; some are children of mothers and fathers who pray for their safety and their souls. There are winners and losers on these streets; the winners give a piece of their spirit. The losers that could not pay sometimes take what they want without remorse. Jamie decided to call her parents, her father answered; screamed “harlot” into the phone and hung up. His only child’s crying will end tonight with a ride in an undertaker’s hearse.
Author’s Note: Dear followers I know that my posting are few during these past weeks, however I am fighting an illness and hope to be back to writing on a regular basis as soon as possible; thank you for your patience. Elizabeth Ann
Serena knew that beauty had an ending, that all things fade and die she was in the winter of her years. All her friends were gone as was much of her family, some forgotten like goldenrods falling to dust upon the wind. Her eyes yearned, her heart bled for love, she kept repeating the words…
“Old, old, old.”
The clouds of time have spun away like fall she now waited for the last leaf to drop. All that was left was the sweet memories like Honey wine. Please she whispered let it go quickly…
“I am so tired of time”.
A roar of thunder melds with a coming storm, Tom Thornton’s heart is stone; he knows that because he feels nothing. His wife’s veins once flowed with a passionate fire; now the crimson liquid spread across the floor. Doors locked, a decision had to be made and quickly. His life also ended when he would not let Sarah leave. His heart will never soften; he will never feel the heat of Sarah’s fire again. The police and ambulance sirens filter into the house. He sat on the bed asking, “God, will I go to Heaven if I choose to die”?
Coffee Table Books – 8 X 11
On a Blue Bird Day
It is spring, warm breezes float through magnolia trees. A gracious woman of the South rises from past memories; her thoughts behind the ice blue eyes. She sits on the bank of a pebbly brook under a Blue Bird sky, the scent of lilac rises from her starched dress. She dips her fingers slowly into the cool water; she is old and life has passed her by, and the depths of her truth never known. In her secret place of selfishness her hate for an unwanted child; she stops to ponder her own question; does she deserve the name “Mother”.
It was July 1915 and Annabelle stared out the window. Beyond the bars lay the tombstones covered with dead leaves and vine, each inscribes with nothing but a number; the records might have given the names of those beneath the red southern soil.
She knew that there were no tomorrows. A marriage of happiness ended with a disobedient act against her husband. It was his right to put her in an asylum for the insane and the disobedient. Yesterday’s promises were over; the “Consumption” as they called it would soon take her life. The small 12X12 stone would read “#9391”.
Jenny’s and Jim’s hearts felt ripped from their chest as their baby, their only child lay unmoving; a blue tint already replacing soft pink skin still covered with sand from the beach. Why were they not watching her? When the ambulance drove away, they ran to their car driving away from the tiny blue and white cottage by the Gulf. As their car went through the guardrails, they held each other tightly and smiled while the cool salty water flowed through broken windows. Both called out in the darkness; “Sandy we’re coming”. The single headstone read, “HERE LIES THREE HEARTS”.
Rutted Roads available at Amazon.com click on the purchase books tab at the top of the site to order.
Thank you for following this blog and the interest in my poetry. eajm
When Rachael discovered she was pregnant, she thought of suicide; married to a poor sharecropper she did not want another mouth to feed. She felt anger, she feared God’s wrath, but would take that chance. She did not want the burden; she was determined to kill the unwanted seed. The cries coming from the bed told Rachael that the baby was alive; there was nothing in her heart but hate as she placed her hand over the baby’s mouth and nose, to suffocate life from the tiny body; its journey on earth was cut short. Rachael rolled over and smiled.
Rachael is a fictional character in the “100 Word Story” however, hundreds of children are killed each year; mothers are most likely to kill newborns because of mental illness such as postpartum depression or because they cannot handle the stress of caring for a baby. The research on this subject reveals that the day a child is born is the day a child is most likely to be killed by a parent. Mothers who kill tend to do on impulse and then there are those that just do not want a child.
Psychiatrists say parents who kill their children tend to fit one of five categories:
- A parent suffering a psychotic break.
- A parent who thinks he is killing out of altruism because he doesn’t want a child to grow up without him.
- A parent acting out of revenge against a spouse or partner.
- A parent who kills an unwanted child.
- A parent who kills from neglect or by recklessness
If you are aware of someone that possibly comes under any of these categories; reach out to them and offer your help.
At dawn, Ruby Waters life light went out, in the dark her children cried; a candle glowed against the rustic rough boards of the shanty shadowing the souls left behind. Laid to rest quickly in the Louisiana heat; the moon cast a glow on her shallow grave. The children’s tears burn hot upon their dirt-streaked faces as relatives who heard the shots took them away. Drunken Gat Waters had shot his emancipated wife because she was pregnant again then yelled, “Now dat’ are two less mouths to feed”. They were swamp folk no one outside Bayou Gauche would ever know.
NOTE: Visit author’s book page or ann Johnson-murphree at Amazon.com