Ah! A little something dark and twisted comes flowing forth today, from me and from my two contributors. Enjoy this very Strange Prompt…
From Julie Easley, a poem:
I thought I might be dead
waking up in this shrunken room.
The walls seem elastic
to my touch, bending with my body,
as if breathing on their own.
A small window beckons me,
desperate as I am for light,
for signs I am living.
There is movement, a momentary
glimpse of hope as images
flash before my eyes.
But I am just a mirror,
a reflection of my past, playing
out on repeat until I learn.
And from Jo Colley, a prose-poem:
It’s so light, but there are no windows: the light comes from a series of ultra violet bulbs, giving the impression of daylight. Light making an effort to emulate the sun, to be real, to improve your sense of well-being. But the effort is too great. And there’s nothing to hide under or behind: all open plan, wooden floorboards, floor cushions. You feel so exposed. It makes you want to prostrate yourself face down on the tasteful rug and list every one of your inadequacies. You suspect this might take some time.