This doesn’t look like a Drive-In. It looks like a Cemetery. Just Saying.

 by a.m. moscoso

Who planted the seeds that took root along the road to Riversleigh?

Who planted the Nightshade and Rosary Peas and Elephant Ears that grew wild and choked the life out of the roses and daisies and wildflowers that used to grow there?

Who do you think took those seeds from gardens tended by Monks with no faces and Women with no eyes and  who do you think stole each one of those seeds with the steady hand of a surgeon from resting places in the sour dark earth that cover long ago graves?

Who planted those seeds in the dark, dropping each one into the earth with dusty cold hands - smoothing the earth back over again with a foot encased in leather with heels worn away from miles and miles of namless roads that cut through miles and miles of nameless towns?

I wonder.

It’s just a thought, one little seed from me…

to you.

Photograph(s) copyright Shaun O’Boyle

 

Last night I said to a traveler

lost on the road that goes by my house:

You could come home with me.

You wouldn’t have to be afraid of

doors the doors that open and close by themselves

Or the way the darkness never moves away from the light

in the house I call home.

Sometimes there is music and sometimes there are footsteps

lively and sure

in the halls of the house I call home.

I’ve been here for a very long time

and

nothing really changes

except for the screaming.

That always sounds the same.

Here In the House I Call Home.

 

Once

I set out on a trip all by myself.

I didn’t have a map or a ticket I didn’t know where I was going.

But I went alone.

And I was alone.

For awhile.

Towards the end of my trip I heard someone coming towards me-

slowly.

And then I heard someone breathing

just around the corner from where I was was walking

all alone.

And then I stopped.

” Someone there? “

I asked.

No one answered.

” Hey!  Is someone there? ” I called a little louder.

The breathing stopped and the footsteps came towards me-

from around the corner and I closed my eyes tight and put one foot in front of the other and then I flew towards the breathing and the footsteps and the voices that cried out:

” What the hell was that? ” came the voice from behind me and then below me as I took to the darkness above ” What the Hell was that! “

 

 

 

 

by a.m. moscoso

inspired by the SFC Prompt:: DESCANSOS

 

On every street in every town there are many roads that lead

to many places like

schools and churches and homes and stores.

In every town those many roads

can twist and curve and end just as suddenly as they began

with names and numbers to mark their place on maps in books and printed within hastily folded booklets lost under car-seats and in stuffed into backpacks and glove compartments and desk drawers.

Just ask anyone- someone like me-  how many roads lead

to haunted houses

and neglected cemeteries

and corners where someone looked up into a strange face and wondered if they were going home for the last time

and someone like me

will say

there is only one road

that goes to these places

Only One.

 

Inspired By The

SFC Prompt::

Bad Girl On The Block

When I was a kid I wanted to be a Flapper.

I wanted to wear those cool clothes and have that edgy haircut and have boys coming to my house in Model T Fords-preferably painted yellow.

I wanted to hang out in Speakeasys

and smoke cigarettes from long cigarette holders and say things like ” that’s the bee’s knees alright ” when something impressed me and I wanted to say in a low sexy gravely voice that could make people blush ” Did you see Anne’s new Sheik? He’s the Cat’s Pajama’s”

Oh wait.

I do say things like ” The Bee’s Knees ” and “Cat’s Pajama’s” and when a guys are off the scale gorgeous I do think of them as Sheiks ( as in Valentino Sexy and if you don’t know who he was, Google him )

And be warned nobody can do the Charleston as good as me- well, nobody my age anyway.

So how did a Punk Rocker born in 1964 find her way back to the 1920’s and come back again as an Honorary Flapper?

Other Grandmothers take their Grand-kids to the Park and to the Beach.

My Grandma sent me on a trip to the roaring 20’s.

My Grandmother and her Sisters- who in their day weren’t just on the cutting edge of the 1920’s- it sounded like they stood on the blade itself and jumped up and down all over it.

I grew up on their stories about the advent of extreme makeup styles and short hair for women and the music- which seemed to have a preoccupation with fruit, booze and love. 

When they would tell me about having to sneak out to change their clothes so that they could ‘ look modern’ and the lengths they went through just to wear makeup and find boyfriends and get their haircut short I would think how sweet and silly and innocent that all sounded.

One day after we traded a few wild stories that started because we had been discussing my music and motorcycle riding and new black leather jacket  ripped up jeans and black eyeshadow and  safety pin look I remember my Grandmother sort of looked over to one of her sisters and they didn’t laugh or chuckle or tell me how exciting my life sounded.

In fact, if anything they seemed a bit under-impressed.

And then my Grandmother winked and said how silly and fun and innocent it all sounded.

And looking back on it now and looking at the world my Nieces are living in and what it’s like for them now days- I’m starting to think she was was right.

by a.m. moscoso

I used to visit Riversleigh

 when it rained and the Shadows crawled down from the trees

for me

and together we would travel with my pens and journals and thoughts

to the Dark House.

When I came back I would hide from Riversleigh

and

for a little while it would leave me alone

but then

Riversleigh would start to whisper to me

over the quiet that comes up from my basement, from under my bed, from the cemetery near my house

” Anita, when are you coming back “

 And I would light some candles, or say some prayers and wish I wasn’t alone

when Riversleigh Calls To Me

to come back

to her

in the dark and with the Shadows

to haunt it’s Dark Halls

again

alone.

by a.m. moscoso

Inspired by the SFC Prompt:: Ceremony Of The Mirror

 

” What are you looking at Jingle? “  Milo Hungerford asked his wife.

Jingle was standing in front of their bathroom mirror with her hairbrush in her hand and she turned slowly towards him and said, ” I don’t know. “

He came up behind her and stared into glass and shook his head.

” That’s not right Jingle. “

She put her hand to her face and looked into the mirror again and when she turned back towards Milo she started to cry. ” Milo what’s happening to me? “

Milo  pulled Jingle to his chest and turned her away from the looking glass.

” Is it still there Milo? “

Milo held Jingle tighter and said, ” yes. “

” The one in the foyer- let’s try that one too. “

” Jingle- it won’t…” he started to say and then when he saw the look on her face he nodded. “okay, we’ll try that one too.”

Milo held his wife’s hand and they walked down the dark halls to the entrance to their home and together they looked into the mirror there and Jingle burst into tears and grabbed her face.

” Oh Milo- oh Milo what’s happening to me? ” she cried.

Milo looked into the mirror and there in the glass he saw his wife holding her hairbrush, her dark hair framing her face- all alone except for the darkness that was their home and he turned her gently towards him and said,

” I don’t know how it happened Jingle…but I think you’re alive. “

Just a little tune I like to sing when I write.

 

Inspired by The Write Brain Prompt

” Day 34 “

 

The sparkling trout stream passes through a town called Wasteland Screams.

Wasteland Screams has just four streets with neat white houses lined up side by side and all four streets are named for trees- there’s Cherry and Elm and Oak and Spruce.

There are two Churches in Wasteland Screams and each has a cemetery full of empty graves.

Hidden not in the graves but at the head of each of each grave is a little metal cylinder meant for flowers- but instead of flowers, inside each of those little metal cylinders are a handful of green beads, two pages from a book with no words and dust.

The dusty is heavy and thick and it coats the beads and the pages from the book with no words and sometimes when it rains the water drips down into the blackness of those metal containers  and is devoured by the dust and the beads and the pages from the book…drop by drop.

The people who visit Wasteland Screams- because nothing can live there- see it in great detail through cloudy eyes and they scream in fright through their frozen lungs and they try to raise their hands to their throats to protect themselves from what haunts the streets of Wasteland Screams but they can’t.

The people who see Wasteland Screams are beyond help from anyone.

Because

Wasteland Screams is the place where the dead go

when they dream

 and they do dream

in their graves at night.