HOPE
by Jenny K Gilman
Hope.
An innocent word. The long [o] and the silent [e] separates it from the delightful hop of a bunny.
It can be flighty. A quick bounce. A hop of hope that tickles you with joy for a moment's "what if?"
But it can be cruel. A tease. A thing that brings claws to cling when there's nothing left but this. This. This gamble of peace that keeps you from crazy.
Hope's a vision. An idea. A wish. A dream. A startling need that bleeds and stains and drains, sustains.
But allow hope that fleeting hop. For digging heels into hope grounds, and jumping helps hope happen.
Artwork: From "Enchanted Bunnies." Ruth Sawyer, 1923. P.D.
Bird and Worm
by Jenny K Gilman
Bravely stagnated.
Cracked steps bled Ants,
She hastened them with sandaled toes.
A perplexed Bird
Flew over her; a Worm flaccid in her beak.
"Does she require me, too?"
“I do,” she squawked,
Her first Worm.
Unexceptional.
The Corner Chair
A gothic novel throwback and play on SEO keyword writing.
I assigned myself a random object, a literary style, and a maximum number of words. This is what came from it.
by Jenny K Gilman
As I stare into the heart of that diabolical leather chair in the corner, its enchantment reaching its ghostly fingers into my own darkest core, I swagger. The goblins in my brain, once again, laugh at the ludicrous hallucination . 'It's a chair!" my mind screams.
But the haunted beast sits as do I, frozen and wondering what kind of infernal magic that unlikely conjurer has brought upon me in this-- this extraordinary nightmare. As if by some miracle, it should cease to exist and I may return to my own daily perversions which I am accustomed.
In theory, Tom was a dreamer. An illusionist. A want-to-be necromancer who predicted nefarious omens meant to separate old geezers from their pensions. His ominous predictions have always been laughable. His ability to portend the timing of the sunset was the only prediction this man was likely capable to prove correct.
But now I am surrounded by a preternatural silence. It seems the prodigy is a prophet and I am a fool. I gave him my secrets willingly, and I, a worthy sorcerer. I scoff at my higher intelligence and vow never to take lightly another man again, that is, if I suffer to live beyond these many hours of darkness.
"Spectre," I demand, "Spirits..." I continued, my voice weakening, "...what strangeness is this that I have no defense against you?"
The silence goes unbroken. Even my prized talisman is ineffective against this evil that I do not recognize and I am afraid, because I, as never before, have no vision.