Posted: March 20, 2012 in Fiction, Flash, Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

Happily Never After
by: Linda M. Crate

I’m sick of people telling me that everything is going to be all right. Life is a happily never after, and mine is destined to be the unhappiest of all. All of my life I have been unlucky, and I have no hopes of that ever changing. You see my mother as a prostitute and my father was a pimp and the rest is . . . as they say, history.

My parents were both killed by firefight when I was a month old, and I’ve been dangling on the arms of one abusive foster home to the next. I don’t have much hope of a future despite what those idiot teachers in those asinine schools tell me. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is words. For some reason, I’ve always liked to read and write.

It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. I can’t talk to people. I have a speech impediment so when I speak everyone just laughs at me. They don’t listen to the wings of all of my beautiful words winking beneath the horizon. They don’t see my potential.

I’m just dubbed another stupid kid and shoved in a box and told to be quiet and do as I’m told.

Today I got into my first fight. I beat him up pretty good. He told me that I was a loser, and I knocked him out after two swings. The first one gave him a black eye, the second one broke his nose. His teeth collided with my knuckles, they’re bleeding. It feels good.

Maybe I’ve discovered something else I’d be good at.

I could be a boxer.

A Penny For Your Thoughts
by: Linda M. Crate

Sometimes in the dead of night she told herself that she was a corpse just so she could sleep without worry. Her day revolved around fretting. Worrying about the bills she couldn’t pay, the baby, if he’d ever come back to take care of things like he promised he would. Life was nothing more than a copper penny — sometimes it shone and sparkled with favor, but most of the time it was just covered with grime and refuse and pretty much good for nothing.

They always said that they’d ‘give you a penny for your thoughts’, but if that were true she’d be a millionaire by now.

Her rose tinted glasses were broken years ago, she knows better than to hold her hopes on stars broken past the point of repair.

my surrogate father: trees
sometimes I look upon the faces of
parents and their offspring, wanting
to see the similarities between them —
thirsty for knowledge of the genetics
that lays beyond the branches of their
veins; something they couldn’t really
explain nor could I try doing it in
return; it unsettles people, my eyes,
they pry into all those unwanted little
crevices that you wish didn’t peep out
in valleys of moss hanging at your
elbows; I can’t help it I am a cat I am
curious, yearning to know what exactly
makes someone a parent, my father was
never there he blew away in the wind of
some great storm, I want to know if the
children know how lucky they are if their
father cares; how wonderful they have it
if their father loves them, how nice it must
to be to bred of a man and not a monster;
I am part chimera, I’ve already discovered
the fangs, I try not to cut people on my
dagger teeth; an endeavor that sometimes I
fail, as I twist myself among the trees on
wizened hands too strong to ever let me go.
– linda m. crate

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