Lawless Letters

Perhaps you suspect A criminal bent. Perhaps you think me Impudent. Perhaps to prison I’ll be sent. It may displease The government. But I assure you That what I meant Was a tiny kind of Monument, In this big world, A little dent, One tiny thing That’s permanent. From existential Discontent, A jab at the Establishment. So, yesterday, down The street I went, And I took part In this event. I’m not exactly Innocent, But please don’t call The President. I promise I had No ill intent When I carved my initials In wet cement.

I don’t normally attend funerals. At least, not fancy ones like this funeral. They make a big ceremony of it when a Duke dies. Not the simple churchyard rites done for the likes of us. I wasn’t invited to this funeral. Yet I felt I must go. Sometimes life’s not so simple. The Duke was a handsome man when he yet lived. And did he ever know it. I wasn’t the first girl he was sweet on and I wasn’t the last. He told me I had eyes like emeralds. Why I listened to all his pretty words, and laughed at his stories, I don’t recall. Maybe it was that fine-looking figure. Maybe because it was as close to emeralds as I was likely to get. When I missed my courses, I told him I was with child. At first I thought he smiled. Then I realized that curled-back lip, which days before had kissed my flesh, held a sneer. “Little fool,” he spat. “You were stupid to let that happen. You’ll pay dearly for it.” Perhaps I had been lucky, but no one had treated me so cruelly in my fourteen years....

If you wanted to set your life on fire, there wasn’t a better combination. Kerosone and a book of matches, classics for a reason. All I needed was to wait for a dry night. Our love affair had started slow. The sparks were there, just a few at first. But once they caught, the flames swelled into the sky and embarrassed the sun. They flared, radiant, nature outdoing itself to create something so lovely. We burned, entwined, not minding if it led to our destruction. But fires do not last forever. The flames ate what they were burning. Inevitably, we faded, shrunk, became unrecognizable. So, you see, this was the only way that it could end. Watching, I feel the heat, like a winter blanket. The smoke smells like campsites, laughter, memories. I hear the crackle as the walls fry. My eyes are dry. A shelter mutates into a furnace. I imagine his face As he sees what I’ve undone. My mind warped in that same way When I learned of his deception. We are ann...

It was the right time to leave. The poison allowed no reprieve. The cockroaches fled From under the bed. "Good riddance!" yelled Linda and Steve. Writing Prompts: (1) Must begin with "It was the right time to leave" (2) Narrator's point of view: the monster under the bed Poets: Write a poem using the opening line somewhere in the poem

Garrett wasn’t what Susan expected. Obviously. Humans are hilarious if you ask me. They think they’re so in control of themselves, but their faces show everything. It’s one of my greatest sources of entertainment. That, and the way they behave on boats after a few Coronas. Ninety meters below us, the Mystic River glittered. Susan clung to my railing and looked Garrett up and down. She’d expected Death. Her face said it all: Since when does Death wear jeans and work boots? Well, I got news for ya, sweetheart. Death doesn’t come unless you actually jump off. Believe me, I know. Garrett knew her, though. I’d heard him talking to the other guys from the MDOT crew. They were all standing around, looking up, when Garrett arrived. Even McCarthy. If Slave Driver McCarthy was standing around, you knew something was wrong. Garrett squinted into the sunlight. “Shit,” he said. “SHIT.” “Garry? Whaddya know her or something?” His buddy, Rick. “Yeah, man.” Garrett exhaled, wiped a han...

She wasn’t surprised the pencils were missing. And the fine paper that she used for writing. And the makeup brushes, and the jeweled combs, and the pot of pale powder. Her Majesty sighed. Priscilla had been at this dressing table moments before, and Priscilla never did have any scruples about taking what wasn’t hers. As if she were the queen. Ugh… Priscilla was so common . No amount of cosmetics or costume could cover that up. Her Majesty beheld herself in the looking glass, applying blusher. Just under the cheekbones, never over. She could hear the announcements being made. (“Ladies and Gentlemen… The Duchess Miranda!”) Music. Applause from the assembled multitudes. Corseted, she sat straight as an elm, fixing her hairpiece. Two hundred years ago, she would have had servants for this. And if any servant had dared to remove the Queen’s belongings… Well. Fools like that got what was coming to them. But one had to suffer fools, didn’t one? Not everyone could be royal...

Because, at 2 days shy of 42, it's about time I did this.