I live in a junkyard called home,

littered with moldy memories,

black,

like the mold in our bathroom.

Storage units explode, unlaundered

and tagged

clothes blending as one.

I dust off my throat, scream

it’s my mother’s fault

for hoarding every string of her life,

hanging filthy lights.

I break away. The crisp air lifts me

into navy blue sky. Eyes closed,

I float, squeezing the night into my

chest

like my mother hoards my dead

father.

Alone. Surrounded by people. With strange eyes and hidden intentions. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman shrugged her heavy backpack onto her shoulders as she searched for somewhere to sit, somewhere to lay her head. The ferry was filled to brimming, as people milled about, some heading to cabins, those with cheap tickets scanning the common areas for somewhere to sink to the floor. Somewhere they might be able to snatch a few hours of precious sleep, if the seas weren't too rough, if they could keep the harsh flicker of the fluorescent light from permeating their eye-lids.

Already territory was being claimed and defended - hostile expressions warding off any who sought a spot too close to the first settlers. Even spaces further away were full. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman had been one of the final passengers to step aboard, so there was nowhere for her to go.

The boom of the ferry horn ripped through the air and she felt it shudder through her as the mooring lines were cast off - and the great, hulking vessel left the dock. Piraeus was bathed in the lazy golden sunlight of the evening, softening the edges of the cityscape and lending it a romantic aspect. She almost longed to be back on land - rather than amongst this territorial rabble, but the ferry was heading out to sea and unless she jumped into the frothy, murky depths, there was no-where else to go until morning. The decks were mostly empty now, but the wind bit at her hair and whipped sea spray through the air. Even so high above the water.

She needed somewhere quiet and dry, somewhere as yet unclaimed. She waited until the sun had snatched the last light from the sky and the stars had winked into view. Then crept towards the cabins. To the warm, quiet dry corridors. Somewhere she could roll out her sleeping mat and close her weary eyes.

A place not too far from the door to the deck, that she might be able to get out quick if she needed to, but not too close to the common areas, that there would be many people walking past. The hall was empty and she was soon spread out, grinning at her own cleverness at finding somewhere to rest her head. She was between two cabin doors, tucked as close to the wall as possible, so there was still room to walk past her.

She was just drifting off to sleep, when sounds filtered through. Little yelps. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman startled awake and sat up. Was someone in trouble? She listened carefully - the sounds unabated. Her eyes turned round when she realised they were sounds of pleasure, rather than of pain. She could have moved, she should have moved. But she stayed - and listened as an entire soundtrack of desire played out, to the last shuddering groan.

She left the ferry in the morning but the memory stayed with her. A lasting souvenir.

Summers in Layfield, we’re a different breed.

1. Sipping the morning air:

a blend of pine needles and strawberry toast and coffee,

2. I swing on my porch swing:

anchored between two white oak trees, the wood, damp from last night’s rain.

3. Silk green nightgown:

see-through sleeves etched with lace, just me and the wind, the wind insatiable for my skin, breathing on my breasts.

4. The mourning dove:

my longtime friend, perched on the railing, her cooing part of my meditation ritual.

5. Silvery blue grass:

my bare skin cupped, sweet, but rough, a morning lover who pushes my limits.

Layfield summers are sensual,

secluded from congested traffic and melted iced coffees

sweating on the dashboard.

guess it's in my blood.I try to B positive,but unfortunately sometimes I might send A negative thought. My pen is like a stylus that drops on the page,scratching and bending to arouse my stimuli,to help me focus on the unfocused.A cerebral transfusion that spreads and shreds to a conclusion.

Why send my words into the world unencumbered by my name

Why let others see what I've created using only a computer and my brain

How does this action so contrary to my nature benefit me anyway

I could better use my time and talents in a hundred different ways

Unlike other sites, I'm not REQUIRED to review certain posts.

I don't need to go to an adult area to use the f word.

I've earned $7.00 and should have enough soon for a discounted Tesla Cybertruck.

The lady writers here are HOT.

Prose notifications give me an endorphin kick.

3/6/2025

I could send my

quirky poetry and prose

to many forums:

contests, websites, who knows.

But my writing go-to place

is a dot com called “theprose.”

I enjoy the posts, comments,

challenges from talented souls.

And the valued feedback is speedy,

making me glad I use theprose.

Why Prose?

I could hunt instead, but I don’t like to kill things.

By extension I am too cultured for porn, too energetic to nap, too solitary for conversation, and too young to die.

That pretty much leaves me Prose ;)

See you around, my friends!