You Were Meant to Know the Night Writing Prompt Challenge: Meant For Moonlight/Kindra M. Austin

Moonlight, ethereal

casts your shadow—flings you up

against tall buildings; stretches your limbs

across sleeping streets. Alien in your own skin,

contemplate conundrums plaguing the races.

You were meant to know the night.

You were meant to count the

stars, and give them all

names.

Travel in Sonata

formula, meant to

know the solitude of

Nocturne—

when Heaven is

 alive silvery

 blue pressed into

black, and

your inner voices

speak the

loudest.

You

are a writer—

mother of children,

maker of gods, and

creator of worlds.

You were meant

to speak your

truths. You

 were meant

to know the

night.


Kindra M. Austin is a member of Sudden Denouement, a curator at Blood into Ink, and a fiction indie author. You can read her poems and prose at https://poemsandparagraphs.wordpress.com/ and find her debut novel at Amazon.com  (Amazon UK).

 


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Poisonous – SRP/Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

SRP/Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

A Forum for Divergent Literature

df25e16762d876e51beb33e749a2bcbe--silent-film-stars-movie-starsPoisonous – SRP

they sit calmly around a table

in a well-lit room spewing hatred

from their mouths

it is what it is, and it’s only about

that person who looks back at me

when i stare into a mirror

telling me that I’m not good

enough

they’ve been deciding what to do

about a couple of people

who make it hard for

them to

rule

i sit quietly at the table

as it all swirls around

me

i remember that mirror

tells me the truth at night

its hard to be

quiet and still

i do what I’m told

wait for direction

and silently grow old

silently i grow old

you can’t turn away because

i can’t process the signal

it happens so fast

my sin

drops the needle when

the moon fades to dawn

and it all washes away

clean

and you’re leaving here

while I’m still here

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Speak- Matt Eayre/Uneven Streets Studio

Deeply touching piece about the often invisible survivors of sexual assault and abuse.

Blood Into Ink

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Blood Into Ink is honored to publish this deeply touching piece from Matt Eayre

 

They talked about what was lost, what had been taken away

They cried about broken trust and they poured out their rage

I sat in the circle wanting to fix them, not speaking

They took turns revealing wounds and scars and falling to pieces

They saw each other as safety, recognition of shared experience

I cried quietly and wanted to undo their past

They looked at me and asked the question

I couldn’t speak

I couldn’t share

I hadn’t lost anything

I could still see the untouched, innocent, pure picture of me, in my head

I couldn’t reach him, but he wasn’t dead

So I didn’t tell them I understood, because I didn’t

I didn’t spill my hurts, my pains, my betrayals,

I was scared that they could tell the difference

If I showed my…

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An Ordeal by Fate-Sandy Sandals

It all began with a thought, that originated as a dapple
kindling emotions and actions I had to grapple
a thought, a dream to be something
not in to fit in, but to stand out.

Took a leap of faith just to fail
lost my confidence and became frail
belief, faith and trust seemed futile
battled waves extremely brutal

Shunned loved ones and avenues that meant the world to me
hoping that was the best coping mechanism that could possibly be
filled with dread and terror,
I faced the consequences of my error

Out sprung a path after a long wait
a path of patience and perseverance,
a path little less ornate

Walking the path, as there is no place to go
unaware of the repercussions my life might throw
the path is long and I am still nowhere
but is filled with wisdom that would enhance my flair

I choose to tread to a destination unknown
vehemently exploring out of my comfort zone
basking in the diverse experiences laid on my track
hoping the dots would connect when I look back
– Sandhya Shekar (AKA Sandy Sandals)


About me: Optometrist, explorer, science geek, humorist, environmentalist, polyglot & an amateur photographer

I blog at things that matter to me


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(Not So) Anti-Architecture

Robin Boyd was the most famous architecture critic Australia ever produced. In a still relevant essay from 1968, he calls for architects to cast aside their perennial political timidity.

Read on Places Journal

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Stars Slip Through My Hands

the haunted hours

rendered transparent

ghost in my own life

my heart

an empty room

so still

so quiet

it hurts

salt water

tracing curves

feel of fingertips

on plastic keys

only tangible reminder

that I am made

of more than

mist

memory

things I value

slipping out

of my grip

hands still

lacking the agility

the strength

to catch the stars

as they slip from my sky

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


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Why Everyone Should Monochrome

You guys know I always come back to this look, and I think you should too! Keep scrolling to discover why everyone should monochrome:
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Ode to a Black Eye

I can’t remember now

If it was your left eye or your right

Just how puffy it was

Almost swollen shut

Black and purple

Against your pale skin

The white of your eye

Hemorrhaged

From the force of the blow

 

I don’t remember

If we asked what

Had happened

Or if we just knew

I do remember

Being in Mrs. Merten’s

English class

People whispering

Into each other’s ears

Wondering what you had done

To deserve this black eye

Had you pushed John-John

To the limit?

Flirted with another guy?

Had you been mouthy?

They wondered

A bitch?

 

You could be mouthy

You could be a bitch

In the way that only a teenage

Girl can be

I hit you once myself

At a middle school dance

After you said something

Cruel and hurtful to me

Pushing a button

That only an old friend

A good friend

Knows exists

You laughed at me then

I remember wishing I had

Slapped you harder

 

I watched the swelling

Gradually recede

The colors fade to yellow

And green

Unsettled day after day

Sitting in the back of the room

That black eye

Has haunted me for years

My silence has haunted

Me for years

I should have told you

That no woman

Ever deserves that

I should have told you

To dump his sorry ass

That he didn’t deserve you

But I didn’t

 

It wasn’t until

I left our small

Blue collar, provincial

Massachusetts hometown

And went to college

That I learned to call

This exactly what this was

Domestic Violence

 

© 2016 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

 


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Razor sharp-Bisma Naveed/A Thought Process

Meet Bisma Naveed of A Thought Process

A Thought Process

Sliding down this razor sharp concrete, scratching away this deep rooted ache.

An acute clarity, piercing through every ounce of my being, extracting more than is present.

Voices of aching misery, echoing, clashing against these walls of a withering sanity.

Shivering innocence painted over, stroked with kisses of an ugly black.

Remarkable cruelty, a merciless shove, a sobbing plea, a plea for pure and utter numbness.

Tears borne of a plaguing soreness, a helpless defeat.

Streaming down into oblivion, corroding its restricting boundaries only to later embrace them with welcoming arms.

Absorbing this unquenchable thirst, this enlarging desire to feel the vastness of these indestructible skies within my constricting skin.

A desire to own this sable comfort, this dark serenity, to feel it throbbing in the desolate chambers of this magnifying suffering, this relentless pain.

Rocking back and forth, desperately trying to wave away this ferocious onslaught of sickening memories.

These mindless…

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House of Glass

Bisma Naveed/A Thought Process

A Thought Process

Night fall after night fall,

I call out your name,

It echoes against my lips,

Reverberating in my every breath.

But then it ruptures into this cloak of shivering white that I wear,

Depleting into this film of delicate nothingness,

Only to be held permanently in these crevices of my pale skin.

I stand, bruised under the piercing gaze of this moonlit sky,

Draping myself in the lingering scent of your soothing words,

Your mellow touch forming strokes of pure mirth 

Against this filthy misery coiling into my aching wounds,

Bleeding,

Scratching at all that is lifeless, dead.

I break even more,

Shifting against this gnawing restlessness,

In my desperate pursuit for tranquility,

Crafting a plastic hope out of these shapeless shadows.

I fade away,

Only to awaken again in this house of glass,

In the fragile existence of the memories that we built.

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