Jacob had created an index listing the various kinds of sin the ministry members had committed; it was rather explicit. He gave us advance warning that it might feel like a sock in the gut, finally knowing all of the acts perpetrated against the innocent. It was negligence on their part, the leaders, to allow these false men into their commune. As penance, we forced ourselves to eat the moldy brown leftovers until we gagged. It gave us a sense of judicial retribution as we also flagellated each other with the segmented chain made of tiny slivers of sharp metal.
Tag: child abuse
Worship
Inspired by Reena’s Exploration Challenge #272 – Word Prompt
& Moonwashed Weekly Prompt #134 – Dubious
in a dubious trance
feeling the same wavelength
indoctrination
The trailer is scary enough, but to really get a better understanding of indoctrination, you can watch the movie on Amazon Prime, YouTube, Google Play, Vudu, Apple TV or Sling TV.
Duane L. Herrmann
ANOTHER WORLD
The hills are alive
with coyote chorus
excited tipping
of the young’uns
rolling over prairies
on the winds
as full moon shines
her silvery glow.
This is their land too.
WINTER SUN
Clear cold days
to wake the face:
bright sun
with no warmth
shines
of no mind
for comfort
as winter
freezes on.
RED BLOOD
All have red blood,
and pumping heart.
All cry in pain
or distress.
Though varieties,
life is united
in simple ways –
why can we not see
these unities?
MEMORIES BE
Memories can change
be overlaid,
gain new meaning,
become
a friend they weren’t
before,
but effort,
process,
must be made.
OBEDIENT TO THE END
Daddy said he loved us
with all his heart, and cried,
then said to face the wall – quiet!
Then he brought the little ones
and told them to stand too.
He went up the line
one head at a time…
Explosions.
I ran!
WARNING SIGN
The sign warns:
“Clean floors
prevent accidents.”
Just as truly
it can advise and mean:
and mean:
“Accidents
prevent clean floors.”
True too!
~~~
The work of Duane L. Herrmann has been published in print and online, in over a hundred journals, more than fifty anthologies, plus seven volumes of poetry, more chapbooks, a history, and a sci-fi novel; all despite a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD, cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, and PTSD. Duane was first featured on June 19, 2020, and again on December 4, 2020. Some of his thoughts were also selected and published in The Sound of Brilliance. His latest feature was posted on June 24, 2022.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
click here for the submissions guidelines.
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Accidentally Poetic
on the streets
a molested teen
knocked up by dad real young
then kicked out while gay
will be caught loitering now
on the seedy side of town
sweet smellin’ weed
it takes me off mark
my weightlessness calms me down
in peace I float high
smoke permeating all pores
drifting away from life’s crust
polluted
cough inducing life
it chokes my throat hot and raw
exhaust and anger
fury hangs in the air thick
rage blows up, innocence pays
~~~
AP’s confession – the words just started pouring out one day. Totally shy in real life but enjoys bold poetry about life. This is Accidentally Poetic’s first feature on The Short of It.
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Joni Caggiano
Sadness Moans
shooting pain lurches like a stranger in the blackest night
where monsters live releasing their copies, swarming past, out of sight
jealousy walks on rugged stones stealing from the gifted
holding hands of small cactus plants until the desert sands are shifted
behind their peering eyes a Judas runs to throw a stone
whiffs of his betrayal, climbing to the top of the field, I hear his moan
trust a blanket, with a thousand promises, tickling me
deceit, painful rubbing of an alligator’s bony plates, I run to a forest tree
a stranger in this house of horrors, yet I have to live
stealing glances, taking chances, as I taste the bitter love I cannot give
Luna Moth and Her Lover
intense eyes open imaginary shutters
her green wings, the luna moth flutters
she mates once has no mouth, dies, lays eggs in wooded covers
would I give my life for one more night
knowing death would be my one last flight
with you, my darling, keeper, and lover of my heart, I just might
Rumor Damage
rumor is a spineless seed dipped in fertile shadow dirt
that multiplies and causes pain and unexpected hurt
silence, a bed partner that takes but never gives back
as a man tells a buddy how easy he got her in the sack
black spots jump off potatoes and out of a perfect dish
surviving boiling water and a blemish on an ideal wish
misfortune of a hammer that averted a four-inch nail
a hungry man begs for food and becomes a vulgar tail
her legs jump from flower to flower, hoping for a treat
for sleeping alone with her legs and scheming little feet
jealousy and deceit was the cause of their blue demise
scissors cut paper, and true words, well – their end is no surprise
Uncle’s House
memories grow roots that spring up like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn
hiding among floating clouds, unwanted hands, or those thin leafless limbs
the taste of cigars on lips or the slimy feel of uncles’ probing thick tongue
he took me to church, like to watch me dance and listen when I sang hymns
lots of summer afternoons, I sat for hours while the birds sang songs to God
his lap was big, and it felt good to have someone to care what I liked to do
summer days remind me of candy, fishing, and rum bottles hiding everywhere
the smell of marigolds or that living room and wiggling to get away from you
Mermaid’s Lost Love
seaweed, green, like my eyes, harbor me in this woeful abyss
waning as my golden blueish scales morph into blackness
shadow life, and inquisitiveness died and bled the colors of the
Bolivian orange-red sunset, which calls to your land’s hummingbirds
as their darting ceased, when my only child died not far from your brown banks
caught in a mile-long fishnet with a dolphin, and sea turtle friends
a triangle of death as I watched her die slowly as I tore my fingers
trying to save my little mermaid child as my blue tears floated skyward
a mere full moon later my merman swam into a black pool of thickness
unable to swim, black death covering his scales, cocooned as he died a painful death
I visit a river that has ancient trees with long gray hair, our family knew
my sorrow theirs, for they would clap as we would sing our odes
large white stones for basking, close to flowers that smell of love, and hope
braiding the morning glories, red swamp hibiscus, and white gardenias
into black hair as reminders of the lifeless and those that will follow
our world under and above the sea is dying from white man’s greed
regret and sorrowfulness breaks my heart into pieces
soon cut into ribbons like the seaweed I will die from sorrow
for no longer do I wish to see the sunrise, no, not one more tomorrow
Old News Is Not Old News
whites of fearsome eyes looking up from blood-soaked boards
black bodies stretched naked, branded, and shackled to floors
fifty women drowning overboard that enslaver’s work quickly done
another coast, heavily greased black muscles, glimmer in the sun
2021 computers on – I listen while today’s news on a video rolls
spinning lies another bright young man died as this story unfolds
choked, gaged, sprayed, or flayed, old news nothing fresh today
sadness is killing me daily, as I think, what will their mothers say
another way of killing folks instead of hanging on a hoary oak tree
black people want to live their lives, be respected, and to be free
I am sick and tired, of being sick and tired, of the filthy shocking pace
of how white men keep eradicating people, not included in their race
~~~
Joni’s blog is Rum and Robots. Her national and international publications can be found here: https://the-inner-child.com/publications/. She is a surviving Adult Child of Alcoholics. Joni is a retired nurse and paralegal. Since the age of six, she has been writing songs and poetry. Joni is an avid environmental advocate. She was first featured on The Short of It in December 2020, and her work was published in the first anthology – The Sound of Brilliance.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
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Reblogs – Chris Hall & Rashmi Buragohain
These two pieces clearly show the juxtaposition between a life which is freely chosen and one which is not.
You dance for us too by Chris Hall
We watch you dance in the sunlight
admiring your graceful fluidity
your total abandonment
to your art.
We watch you dance from our windows
confined inside, with limbs
no longer able
to obey.
That freedom, which once was ours
lives on, as we watch
while you dance
for us too.
Barely Ten by Rashmi Buragohain
Featured on Masticadores USA 3/31/22
She was barely ten
When she had to take
Those seven steps around the fire
With weary eyes
She was barely ten
When she stepped in that house
With a toy of a doll
Clasped in her hands
She was barely ten
When her toy was forgotten
Lying somewhere in a corner
Covered with dust
She was barely ten
When the ladle became her life
To feed them all, but none to ask,
«Where is your morsel, dear?»
Broken Young, Healed Old
the cries of a young boy go unheeded
his innocence questioning why love hurts
why is he to blame
always
his reddened body
and damaged psyche
aches
at the prospect of another beating
his mother
another pawn
sidelines her nurture
for her own peace
the child twice unlucky
lives out a horror-filled childhood
but with determined endurance
his strength gets him thru his familial hell
at the tender age of sixteen
grasping sweet freedom
in the ball of his fist
he holds back the final strike
quieting his monster
embarrassing the beast’s over-blown stature
it shook the cowardly aggressor
finally
there was peace
a respite from the violence
a start of healing
yet the dysfunction lingered
the home, always a yelling place
a source of constant dissatisfaction
coupled with emotional abuse
the father found other ways to injure
it was only a few more years
then the young man’s escape became possible
finally living on his terms
had begun in earnest
he peeled off the pain
saved himself and forged a future
promising himself to live a better life
he tried
one marriage in and down
the second one brewing for a storm
the dysfunction of the past not quite gone
just carried forward
he’d survived
but had not shed the poison within
still imprinted deep
was the darkness of the monster
not expunged, as thought
only resurfaced in time
the complete healing
required reflection and resolution
steadfast and enduring love saved him
pushing him to face his demons
and asking forgiveness of those he’d broken
just as he had been
Franca Basta
Peonies
The peonies blush,
gossiping and basking in
sun-kissed harmony.
Watermelons
Still
evenings.
Juicy fruit.
Slices passed round,
Each pip a story.
I listen in wonder.
Laughter, disbelief, shivers.
Friends gather in an inclusive
circle. Ice clinks in enamel jugs.
Slices of fruit, slices of times gone by.
Expectations
Yes!
Love it!
Thanks a lot!
What I wanted!
I walk out of the hairdressers and cry.
You know me too well
Who are you? Reading my private thoughts and
looking deep inside of me.
Who are you? Oh. It’s me.
*TRIGGER WARNING: CHILD ABUSE*
Innocence dies
Please stop.
Forget my room.
I don’t like your smell or
voice or skin or words or shape. Please
let me dream about fairies and chocolate.
I want my mummy’s arms.
Not yours. Not yours.
Please stop.
~~~
Franca has an English tongue and Italian gesticulation. She’s been featured in various flash fiction anthologies and creative writing sites but felt the need to turn her hand to poetry. She loves to write with humour but sometimes the dark side of life comes to the fore. Pasta and chocolate always help. This is Franca’s first feature on The Short of It.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
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Reblog – childhood’s villain by Bogdan Dragos
A powerful read for anyone with a dysfunctional childhood, definitely one for me.
Father used his fists a lot Though never on the kids On the walls and the furniture and the doors and the mailbox and the fence and the neighbors and random people on the street and strangers in the bar and a few times the poor dog and one time on mother He was the childhood’s villain To defeat him one had to become a hero and becoming a hero took time And today after all this time the villain of childhood was dead He died at the hands of some other character, a neutral one A cop who told him to drop to the ground and father didn’t so he got shot That was it The end of his saga Utterly unsatisfactory anticlimactic disappointing just bad There was no final showdown between hero and villain because those things only happen in childhood and childhood had ended a long time…
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Beginning, Middle, End
by chance
life begins amongst strangers
a start of birthed possibilities
propelled without consent
entering this world
substantive expectations spur entities on
with an unconscious hope for empathy and guidance
yet living is a potluck
one possibly enjoyed
but for them
probably not
filled with variables beyond their control
with only but a few moments
bent favorably in their direction
too soon
the barely living
trudge towards the inevitable
a half-achieved existence for most
with regret
many pass
with tears
they leave in agony
their death
the unfortunate finish they’d not hoped for
I Write Her 