Z’Doom

She was stuck.  None of the buttons at the bottom of her screen were operative.  Eventually they all disappeared.   Why shouldn’t she leave the meeting?  No one moved, no one spoke.  A thin trickle of moisture snaked down her back.  Her palms were wet.  But she continued to stare straight ahead.

Resolved to stand, she found her butt glued to the chair, her feet fused to the floor.  She could not un-rivet her gaze from the screen.  She was frozen as were all of her fellow zoomers.  They stared into each other’s blank, motionless eyes and prayed for unstable internet.

Image by Arteum-ro via Unsplash.com

Many Questions

“Should those plants be touching?”

“What?”

“Should those two plants be touching each other?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No! Should they be touching? Their leaves are mingling.”

“ Why are you concerned about that?”

“It doesn’t seem right. Is it healthy?”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems bizarre to be concerned about the mingling of leaves. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just wondered if its okay for those leaves to mingle.”

<silence>

“Why are you so dismissive of my concerns?”

“Fine. Sorry.  It is okay for those plants to touch. Better?”

 

“Yes, thank you . . . what about those two plants?”

 

Image by Robin Anderson

Calaveras Literarias: The Swamp

Denizens of the Swamp

Lindsey

I’m sweating for money.

Campaign is dead broke

Fox news let me whine.

But the South’s becoming woke.

 

Haunted look in my eyes

Tells the tale of my demise.

Sucking up to the Trumpster,

The act McCain would despise.

 

I’m glad John went before me

At my wake, he’d make no appearance.

Hang with the sick get the sickness,

That’s simple social science.

 

Susan

I’m concerned to death about

A woman’s right to choose.

But a battle with Trump’s twitter

Is a brawl I’d surely lose.

 

I’m concerned to death about

Pre-existing conditions.

But my donors say no,

That means tax additions.

 

I’m concerned to death about

The pandemic-vs-Trump

But I’m just too darn tired

To admit that he’s a chump.

 

Bill

Give me death

If I can’t have theocracy.

Don’t substitute it

With some shabby democracy

 

Trump can be king

Of the US of A

But I will be

God of the whole DOJ

 

When covid stops my earthly toil

Far right my spirit leans.

Engraved on my tombstone:

The ends justify the means.

 

Calaveras literarias: a poetry  form that is popular in Mexico during Día de los Muertos. These poems can be satirical or critical or just poke fun at the foibles of humankind. Initially they made fun of death itself, but later began to target political figures, government officials, and other celebrities.

Photo KrystianPiatek@krystian_piatek  on unsplash.com

Ritual

He appeared scrupulously unsuperstitious, but the smell exposed him, acrid, brain-curling. I startled him in the bathroom.

Grandpa dropped the burning envelope into the toilet. “Sssh. Tell nobody. The witch will know.”

After he died, I continued the family tradition, as my grandchild will. Burn all clippings, hair to toenails.

photo by chuttersnap at unsplash

Power Down

Tonight I write by candlelight.  A scheduled outage they said.

No light, no heat, no electronic hum but in the shadows story pours from my pen.  Stream of consciousness, words flow like water or wine or my own blood.

Now I know I should have contrived a blackout long ago.

Image by Robin Anderson

Power Down originally published at fiftywordstories.com on 

The Octopus and the Diver

 

She hid in the depths of the sea, only emerging from her den of shells after he visited her many times, proving his trustworthiness. Dropping camouflage for her natural red, she aimed one eye at his two. Looking deep into his single heart, she revealed a taste of her three.

Becky Kjelstrom

art by Zo Razafindramamba at unsplash