Brain on Cocaine

Prada red shoes

( I hesitated to post this…but what the heck… the prompt led me to write these words)

Written for:  Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, First Line Fridays, and short fiction

Prompt: First Line Friday: July 6th, 2018 – Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her.

Brain on Cocaine

Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her. She had been on the street all night selling her body so she could afford her next line of cocaine. These days it was getting difficult to attract the Johns. Undercover cops patrolled the sidewalks and she could smell them a mile off those bastards.

Her pimp changed her usual corner giving it to a younger girl. Bobbie Jo had regular Johns at that spot. She fought with her pimp, scratched his face and ended up with a fist in her belly. Her nose started bleeding running down her dirty halter top.

The pimp shoved Bobbie Jo to the new corner while he settled himself under the lamppost watching her.

The next John was quiet and dirty. They stayed in the car behind the garbage dumpster. A messy blow job. Back at the corner, the pimp took her money in exchange for one line of cocaine.

Around the age of 10, Bobbie Jo’s three brothers had abused her one after the other.  They initiated her to drugs and cocaine by the time she was 13. At the age of 15, she got on the street, living between two buildings in the downtown core.  She lived from John to John, cocaine line to cocaine line.

She was now 36, her brains fried for the past decade, passed the age that Johns cared to look at twice.

Bobbie Jo lived for cocaine. She knew that Johns and her pimp took care of that. In essence, Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

She wore fake Prada shoes; they were red, the right shoe had a hole in the sole.  Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

Hélène Vaillant©willowpoetry

 

New Found Sprout

new-life

New Found Sprout

In the days of the ancestors there lived a lad clothed in brush and leaves.
“Why?” people thought, “why this strange attire?”

He was a wise lad. He had learned directly from the elements on how to observe what is given to him as a keepsake: using the gifts well while caring for them as they led sustenance to his life. Whenever other lads, of course, saw him they would make fun of him by calling him a living tree.

The lad knew of the mysterious energy, teamed with knowledge, that all came to him through his clothing. This knowing he did not take lightly. He would smile at those who laughed at him, then make a wish that, soon, they would also come to know.
Though lads laughed at him, they also questioned themselves in secret. Perhaps they did not understand the reasoning behind his attire. They thought that he indeed blended in with his surroundings. They also wondered how he dressed inside his own home.

One day, a lad followed him home, peaked through an opening. He discovered that the interior of this home was carved out of a vast tree, extending upwards into the sky. It had no roof. The walls were part of the tree.
Inside his home, he wore a lighter sort of brush and leaves. The lad was peeking through thinking that this was the same as he did when he got to his own house. When he walked into his own home, he took off his coat and hat wearing his lighter weight clothing.

He went home realizing that the lad had a simple way of life. Eventually, he made friends with the nature lad. More and more, he liked going to his home in the tree. He felt different there, alive, happy and calm.
One day, he asked his new friend to help him out in choosing nature attire for himself. From then on he wore this outfit when he visited his friend in the tree house.

Then there were two lads. People who saw them laughed at their outlandish attire. The two lads smiled at them. They knew something that most people had not understood yet.
The lads were happy living in harmony with their environment.

One day more lads came to visit the two in the tree house. They asked the lads to teach them what they knew.

Soon after began the change in attitude and consciousness in this one little town. The small village grew and spread far and wide. The teachings remained the same and reached every corner of the land.
When the teachers left this land to join their Creator, the people slowly forgot the teachings. Eventually forgotten the attitude and consciousness could not be kept alive.

People began to cut the trees, built houses and furniture with the dead trees. Eventually, there were hardly any living trees available. Their breathing suffered from lack of oxygen.

One day a child found a book sticking out of the earth. It was the book written by the two lads, as they grew older and wise. Further in his reading, he questioned himself about the attire the book was mentioning. He read more and more of the teaching instructions. The child then went out to pick leafy branches and leaves and brought them back inside. Using the bush and leaves he made fitting attire for himself. Soon the bush and leaves withered and dried. He was sure he had not followed the teachings outlined in the book correctly. No matter how well he read the instructions, he never succeeded in having any attire that lasted.

Eventually, he realized that the attire was part of a whole way of life; without the other attributes and elements, it could not sustain alone.

By this time it was much too late even to follow the teachings of this book. There was no more living nature to sustain his breathing let alone his body.

The child understood the teachings. He also knew that the generation before him had not. The sadness was palpable to the four corners of the land.

The child reached out to the Heavens. Tears filled the rivers, the oceans, the streams and much of the Land. Life began to sprout in the darkest of lake paths and river beds.

The child walked along with his new found book. He spotted a fresh, gentle sprout. In that instant, he knew this sprout would provide him shelter in the very near future.

Hélène Vaillant©

Life’s Choices

the doors

Written for the prompt:  The Doors – Twittering Tales #82 – 1 May 2018

Life’s Choices

Life,
with its myriad surprises
Of late,
countless blessings
Today,
panic, doubt
burn in my belly.
Facing my challenge
I creep like a mouse
choosing door #4.
Stepping over the threshold
quickly,
the door closes behind me.
The past
is no more.
Today
just is.
Tomorrow’s light
shines forth.

(275characters)

Hélène ©willowpoetry

Anyway…

sunday-whirl-349

A little bit of fiction….just as I imagined it using the words for this prompt:
Wordle 349

 

Sunday Whirl prompt : kiss-scream-sticky-spill-lift-curl-laugh-spin-plant-hit-pass-screen

Anyway…

Every Sunday evening the whole family curled up in front of the fire while granddaddy told us about his childhood on the farm.
“I was a bit mischievous at times. I would pass behind my sister, pinching her behind just to make her scream.
“Kids didn’t use sunscreen then. There was no such thing and nobody thought about being out in the great outdoors hours on end in the sun. That’s just the way it was back then. You would come back inside all sweaty and sticky and Mom would tell us to wash our hands for dinner.
“Mom would always let me drink the cream at the top of the milk bottle. Every morning she would pass the bottle on to me before anyone noticed. Oh! that cream was so good.
“Anyway, when I grew up, I was about 10 by then, Sally and her family moved next pasture down the hill. I spent a lot of time with Sally for a few years.
“Quite a few times I lifted Sally up on my favorite horse. I would sit behind her while we had a bit of a spin around the coral.
“Sometimes I would kiss her on the cheek and she would giggle and laugh. I loved that and I think she did too. One day my sister caught me stealing a kiss like that and she spilled the beans on me. Mom didn’t say anything to me. The next morning she passed me the milk bottle with a big smile.
“Well, anyway, we also planted stuff like sunflowers and collected the seeds at the end of the season. Sometimes we didn’t hit it off good with the planting though, not enough rain or too much rain.

Hélène ©willowpoetry

Memories

nature-3262780_1280

Written for:   Twittering Tale #80 – 17 April 2018
280 characters (spaces and punctuation included)

Memories

In my quiet solitude, unable to control my tears, I recall the love we shared hiking to our secret spot. It has become an aching memory etched deeply within my heart. Since you left, I feel like this abandoned little rowboat, half submerged, slowly slipping from the surface.

(277 characters)

©willowpoetry

 

Secret Affair

For: The Sunday Whirl (frozen, rope, saint, rasping, hazy, folded, gusts, holy, home, poverty, crazy

The old Monastery lies at the bottom of a ravine.  Cloistered monks living within these crumbling stone walls have all renounced worldly life and taken a vow of poverty. During the winter months, gusts of cold air travel through the frozen corridors.   This is their Holy Home.

Brother Saint Francis has a room next to Brother Timothy. Whenever Francis sits quietly in his room he keeps hearing strange rasping noises.  He questions Timothy about it but Timothy says he has never heard anything.

As soon as Francis returned to his own room, Timothy reaches for the secret opening he carved in the floor under his bed. Moving his simple cot to the back wall, a hazy cloud of dust spreads throughout the room.

Within this small opening Timothy gazes into the eyes of a big fat rabbit.  With a rope tied around one of its little legs, a folded hand towel for a pillow, the rabbit lies quietly inside an earth bottom box.

“You crazy little rabbit, you must keep quiet”!

Timothy says to the rabbit.

Hélène Vaillant©

Daring Escape

tltweek51

ThreeLineTales: Prompt – picture above 

Daring Escape

She loved to dive into deep water, no matter where she was, the thrill of any possible danger made it a welcome challenge for her.

Taking off her shoes she slipped out of her shorts , dove straight into the dark water and crushed her head on a rock where she remained.

What did she need to prove to herself with this daring escape would never be heard by anyone.

Hélène Vaillant©