Story Challenge

My husband and I set up a story challenge (he wants to start writing again).

The challenge is one written page, short story. He had to give me two words and I had to give him two. You must write a one page story using the two words in some way, be it meaning of the word, expression of the emotion of the word or just the word itself.

My words were Myriad and Anathema. Here is my story.

Story Challenge. One Page. Title is “Red Blue”.

He could have stood quietly allowing the waves of indifference to pass over him. Yet he held her, still breathing, taking life into her lungs. The blood had sprayed like twinkling stars upon his arm, a universe of blood, all moments, all pumped from the source that would never know its maker.

Tight wired hair complicated all movements, why had she not cut the damn mane? Small red tokens adorned the nest of sand washed hair. This was the movement, the moment.

He twisted his arm, she was losing breath. He could hold her tighter but she would not feel it.

He had been held by her, so many nights, awakened by a flash of this wired sand hair and her breathless movements. All that would pass now, all that would be was the end of these movements.

She held fast and then, with a silent touch, reached with her eyes to him. All forgiveness pleaded, all mistakes begging for understanding. He held the knife. His hand was shaking; he should not have pulled it out. He had seen the movies. The knife may have held the blood in, may have held it in the body, like stars before the black hole.

She stopped. He could feel her leave as though the knife had left him. She was gone.

Red became blue and blue became red. Loud were the sounds that crashed like so many drums, like the war his grandfather had told him about, the old stories. It was calm now, she was gone. He lay her head down on the cold driveway were once all tires had past, all of the comings and goings of this God forsaken family. It was over for her but not for him. Not for the other.

The man lay in the grass like bag of trash forgotten, left behind by the garbage truck. The breath he pushed was soft and tired and smelled of gasoline. The drops of blood-let stars covered his shrunken, drunken chest. He still breathed, unknowing of what he had done.

Blue became red and red became blue as the drums grew louder. He walked up to the trash. Something was crashing and screaming, something was close and he could make out words. He wanted to talk to the lights and the words  but the trash was there. He had to remove this trash from the lawn.

He stumbled upon empty batteries of courage, anger and fear. He tripped upon bottles of hope and desolation. He fell into a pool of sick and rested beside the trash.  He could do this thing, he could. He held the knife as surely as he had been taught with his own eyes. He needed no batteries. He had wires, wires of tangled hair. He had her, her thoughts, her pain, her passion, her breast, her devotion, her tolerance, her forgiveness and now her death.

He looked the trash in its eyes; black and small. So many bits of loathing that rested in ambivalence. He could hear the red, see the blue. Too many sounds around him, asking him, pleading with him. The knife found its home, covered in the bloody stars that were his mother’s universe. The knife found its home pushed into the beat of his father’s heart. A shot fired. Another drum.

He lie there, quiet now. They were both gone. He would be gone soon. His father had taken his mother, he had taken his father and now, he had taken himself.

Quiet Blood

My mouth will open.
My mouth can speak.
All is quiet.
All is pain.

Do not speak as though you know.
Do not speak at all.
Slip into the quiet night.
Slip before you fall.

I stood upon the hill.
I looked long and deep and hard.
I fell long before I met the ground.
I fell long before I heard the sound.

All is quiet as the ring slips on.
All is quiet as the rage moves on.

And he stood like a rabid pig.

And he bled like a rabid pig.

Still so quiet I could hear the sound.

I could hear the sound.

Quiet footfalls as they hit the ground.

Run. Run. Run.


The Hunter

I can feel the hunter coming around the bend.

The desert has become his mind and numbers, like grains of sand count his moments.

He is coming for me.

My foe, my counter. Desert numbers. Desert time. Desert love.

My hunter is now seeking me. Prey.

It is my babe. My dream. My passions. My Father. My husband. My immortal.

The hunter is held by my mother, the soft solace of acceptance.

The desert now covets my restless mind and everyday I am drawn to the countless sands.

Everyday I feel the grains of heat slip between my fingers.

He has come now for me.

I am hunted by the hunter. I am prey to the preyed.

Tis my childe I will lay for. Tis my childe that hunts me.

My blood will spill upon the desert floor. I will see it done.

It is my babe. Who will pray upon the sands.

My one. My all. Who hunts me like a desert wolf.

I lay. I bow to you.

My son. My one. My all.

-For Hunter Robert Clark.

Red Rose. Red Fire.

Red Rose. Red Fire.

Happy Birthday my love.

For Mrs. Jaynie L. Rodriguez

Red is blooming in this garden of mine

Tempest meets temper (in this garden of mine)

Strategy and longevity are the play of my rose

Red Rose. Red Fire.

Red is blooming ( in this garden of  mine)

Passion meets persistence in this garden of mine

Strength and sex are the play of my rose

Red Rose. Red Fire.

Red is blooming in this garden of mine

In my garden red rose dies

In my graveyard red rose survives


The sun moves and lights the southern bay

My red rose sings alone

I pick her petals

I make them mine

My red rose is blooming as I die

My red rose is tempered where I lie

I bury my heart where the red rose cries

Red Rose. Red Fire.

I Have Passed

I hear her

Sneeking like a saint

White washed walls she crept

Like an angel at an angle

Quite quiet

My mind flutters

She is moving/tasting /touching

My heart stops

She sees me

My wings open and fold

My wings break and bleed

Her eyes have passed

White walls absorb me

I have passed


Run to the grave she said like milk

My lips could taste her heaven

and he said

my child

and we danced beneath deaths star

as if passing could cover me

My baby / My life /My love

take my strings in Bach

break my bones for not

Run he whispered

the knives have me

Take my soul to the screaming stars

My bones are broken upon the oars

take me my love

I am broken on the stars.


Why did we part ways?

I am here. You are here.

Why do we divide?

There was Him. There was Robert.

Did we not live him?

Did you and I not coil around him like dunes eat water?

Did we not both beg of him for Enya and oysters?

Why did he leave?

Did we exhaust him so?

I would never believe that of him.

As we can never lay him down. I wonder if he always knew.

He stays silent in our dreams. Never speaking.

I wonder.

Is he binding us?

Did he always know?

If he had stayed would this be so?

Our life. Together.

Why does he not speak in our dreams?

You cannot return him to me. I cannot return him to you.


Stay with me?

If we stick together we have a better chance.

You and me.

Stay with me. If you lose me then I lose you and we are both desert lost.

Stay with me. I will stay with you.

Maybe then he will talk to us again.

Take my hand and we will both go back to the desert. You and me. US. We will live in the dunes and dream of cats and wild things. Come with me. We are all that is left. We are desert bound.