fff#23 + flash fiction friday #24 trigger

gettin' too slack, now i not just posting the fff#24 trigger late, i barely making it on friday. but it reach, nonetheless, followed by my attempt @ fff#23: wrinkle, heavy, space, light, time.

flash fiction friday #24 trigger (inclusion): earlobe, wrist, lip, knuckle, eye.

rules of engagement:

you will send in your suggestions for flash fiction friday triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusions, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55a.m. friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.*

if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.

you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.

you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).

you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.*

you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).

you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.*[in light of collective busyness and my general mentality, i not pressed about these deadlines 'cause i'd rather have fun reading late than never, so if you want to fff past deadline, go through hard, just make sure you comment on the appropriate trigger-post so we know which it belongs to, and if is a real old trigger, comment on the most recent post as well so we know something new to back-back+read...if nobody fffs i'll leave the same trigger up until at least 1person other than myself writes a piece]*

write fresh!

and fff#23 (not at all what i expected): wrinkle, heavy, space, light, time.

mango season’s flies buzz incessantly past, close and plentiful enough to keep you disturbed and swatting; as if the mosquitos not enough while you work. you nearly tear open a thigh with a thoughtless, irritated swing of the hand holding the chisel you use to engrave the lid, and are gently scratching yourself with the blade of the handsaw from time to time by the time you finish, light disappearing almost too fast for you to choose a spot while the space under the trees still visible.

later, after you put away your carpentry kit and wash away the sawdust+sweat, and tears, you gather the tools for the next part of the ritual. less, but heavy, and in spite of your bath, you are too. you leave what you need by your galoshes by the door, not by the box you kept in the bedroom after putting your sadness inside it.

later still, moon high, providing enough light that you unable to deny this act, you put on the galoshes, and shovel in one hand, box hugged tight to your other hip, step into the night.

you dig for what feels like hours; too shallow a grave allows secrets to escape. you hear the sadness inside the box and know it will stay with you forever even with its body locked in a coffin. when you can’t listen to the box anymore you stop digging.

the first wrinkle in a life otherwise blessed, you now know you strong enough to do what you must; you can birth your babies, dirty your hands, and bury your dead. you will survive.

walk good.