I sniffle as he pats my back, the motion visible to others as consolation. But there’s the usual hint of condescension in the quirk of his dry lips.
He has no soul.
The funeral home vibrates with classical music, the tinny noise as cold as his heart. His frigid response to my grief is nothing new, but when I step out from beneath his arm and turn away, I decide my response, this time, will be.
They call it “The Dark Night of the Soul.” The phrase comforts me—I’m not alone. It almost makes me feel heroic. Surviving the midnight alley of my own mind—the vagrants who stink and spit. The rats, glossy and fat. The dumpsters overflowing with chicken bones and empty bottles.
I look it up on Wikipedia. Turns out it’s a concept from a 16th century Spanish mystic, St. John of the Cross. La noche oscura del alma. That’s me motherfucker.
Rebecca had always attracted lost souls. Her best friends were the school’s misfits and oddballs.
Thanks to them, she learned to love her unwanted cloak of dull invisibility.
Stealthily retrieving stolen money from a bully’s schoolbag, adding itching powder to a ringleader’s sports kit, or hovering by the mean girls’ lunch table with laxatives attracted zero attention.
It didn’t exactly stop all the problems for her friends, but they all enjoyed a huge measure of satisfaction from Rebecca’s invisible justice.
On the couch, curled tightly like a furry apricot comma, you snore unrhythmically blessing me as you do. Even though your days of scampering up mountains and playing ball continuously on the beach are no more you still hold my heart and soul in those deep liquid brown eyes of yours.
Soon I'll wake you and we'll slowly circumnavigate the park and catch up with our friends, then potter home so you can curl and snore contentedly at my feet.
There is only one thing left on the planet. Something immaterial, something that floats. You can feel it, you know it's there, but you can't see. It's only accessible through something inside you. To do this, you have to use your intuition, learn to disconnect from the world and just allow yourself to feel. Then you'll know it's there, in other people's memories, in their hearts, in their thoughts, dreams, desires. It belongs to everyone. It's everywhere. It's your soul.
Speaking of soul, your writing has loads of it lately. It could be my reading preferences showing, but I don't think so. I think you're feeling it lately.
Their existential conversation is interrupted by the sound of leaves crunching under the feet of a lone hiker.
“You can have this one, mate. All of this talk about life—or lack thereof—has ruined my appetite.”
The undead growls his thanks, stalking off toward the poor soul while the cold one shuts his eyes, finding peace in the screams that soon fill the air.
“You’ll get over it.”
I sniffle as he pats my back, the motion visible to others as consolation. But there’s the usual hint of condescension in the quirk of his dry lips.
He has no soul.
The funeral home vibrates with classical music, the tinny noise as cold as his heart. His frigid response to my grief is nothing new, but when I step out from beneath his arm and turn away, I decide my response, this time, will be.
They call it “The Dark Night of the Soul.” The phrase comforts me—I’m not alone. It almost makes me feel heroic. Surviving the midnight alley of my own mind—the vagrants who stink and spit. The rats, glossy and fat. The dumpsters overflowing with chicken bones and empty bottles.
I look it up on Wikipedia. Turns out it’s a concept from a 16th century Spanish mystic, St. John of the Cross. La noche oscura del alma. That’s me motherfucker.
80mg of a SOUL
Rebecca had always attracted lost souls. Her best friends were the school’s misfits and oddballs.
Thanks to them, she learned to love her unwanted cloak of dull invisibility.
Stealthily retrieving stolen money from a bully’s schoolbag, adding itching powder to a ringleader’s sports kit, or hovering by the mean girls’ lunch table with laxatives attracted zero attention.
It didn’t exactly stop all the problems for her friends, but they all enjoyed a huge measure of satisfaction from Rebecca’s invisible justice.
Some dark addiction in your story! So eloquently unfolded!
Thank you!
Soul - 80mg
Gentle ghosts exchange pocketfuls of soil,
Out there, where the earthworms turn it up.
Out of the nowhere comes giving, comes a gift,
Comes grief, like comes a glottal stop–
Comes a sob against the throat of the world.
Every forgiving evokes a return to the eternal
–the globe cannot be flattened to a map–
Every beginning begets an end,
O God of the gullets; God of the gap
And the grace-giving void:
What–
is a soul, is a soul?
I love how poetic people went on Soul.
I was waxing poetic from 'Concrete', but I couldn't get away from work to write!
Soul - 80mg
On the couch, curled tightly like a furry apricot comma, you snore unrhythmically blessing me as you do. Even though your days of scampering up mountains and playing ball continuously on the beach are no more you still hold my heart and soul in those deep liquid brown eyes of yours.
Soon I'll wake you and we'll slowly circumnavigate the park and catch up with our friends, then potter home so you can curl and snore contentedly at my feet.
There is only one thing left on the planet. Something immaterial, something that floats. You can feel it, you know it's there, but you can't see. It's only accessible through something inside you. To do this, you have to use your intuition, learn to disconnect from the world and just allow yourself to feel. Then you'll know it's there, in other people's memories, in their hearts, in their thoughts, dreams, desires. It belongs to everyone. It's everywhere. It's your soul.
The night shift finds the old man sitting alone in the lounge. So still. So very still. One finger stuck between empty pages, pen capped and stashed.
“What’s he doing?”
“Beholding the sum of his life’s work.”
“That’s sad.”
“It was all a waste of time.”
“Didn’t have to be.”
“No?”
“Of course not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he knows.”
Trembling, the old man uncaps his Parker and puts pen to page. It didn’t have to be this way.
Speaking of soul, your writing has loads of it lately. It could be my reading preferences showing, but I don't think so. I think you're feeling it lately.
Thank you Brett! Yeah, I’ve been experimenting, having fun, writing from places where it hurts a bit. Seems like it shows
80 mg of Soul
"In every Blues song you sing the first line twice.
I said, yeaahhhhhhh
In every Blues song you sing the first line twice."
His voice carried a smile within it. He sounded like gravel does, rolling off a cookie sheet, but happiness radiated from him.
The crowd knew this. Mostly drunk on a Saturday afternoon, the small smattering could still see, feel even, the pouring of his soul into the music.
And so they danced, moving their souls with his.
Thanks for joining us Geoff! Great story ❤️
Thanks.
80 mg of Soul--food
Catfish and hush puppies with a side of collard greens.
Fried chicken, cornbread, and some mac and cheese.
Okra three ways: fried, stewed, and roasted.
Pig in the smoker: those ribs falling off the bone.
Baked beans and slaw with extra vinegar.
Hand me some crawfish to put in the grits.
Black-eyed peas and rice, spiced like mama used to.
Biscuits, light and fluffy, smothered in that sausage gravy.
Jambalaya and Gumbo and sweet potatoes.
Finished off with Pecan Pie.
So many of those foods I've never tasted but now I wanted. Great piece
“Look at him dancing!” everyone exclaimed when he was three. They said he had the moves of an old soul.
“Listen to him sing!” they said with affection when he was seven.
At 11 they compared him to the greatest singers of all time. “Quite expressive,” they noted.
“He’s all washed up,” they conceded when he was twenty one. “He is well past his prime.”
Little did they know in a world of making judgements he was just getting started.
Oh so true!
PROMPT: SOUL
THE INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY
It all seemed too good to be true, but the offer was so tempting.
All it would take was a small initial investment from him, and in return, he would be guaranteed to receive wealth beyond his wildest dreams.
He’d never have to worry about money again, and could live a life of pure luxury.
And so he agreed.
He just didn’t realise, until it was too late, that the small initial investment that was required would be his soul… 😈😎😈
You think we have souls?” The vampire asks.
“Urgh,” grunts the zombie in response.
“Same.”
Their existential conversation is interrupted by the sound of leaves crunching under the feet of a lone hiker.
“You can have this one, mate. All of this talk about life—or lack thereof—has ruined my appetite.”
The undead growls his thanks, stalking off toward the poor soul while the cold one shuts his eyes, finding peace in the screams that soon fill the air.
Brilliant
80mg of a Soul
---
Tell me where she’s gone.
I can’t think of anything today.
Can’t feel, can’t dream, can’t hum a perfect song.
See that crimson horizon? She’s not there,
She’s beneath our feet.
You know where’s she from? No,
She’s between the sheets and behind shut eyes
And she rustles me alone on nights like these.
She’s not in sky when it howls and weeps
She’s inside.
She is my life, and now she’s flown.
Said the poet, who lost his soul...
The carnival harridan was quite definitive. “Transmigration of souls. Tonight, you will be joined as one forever.”
Cathy was breathless. “Just like my namesake from Wuthering Heights. With Heathcliff. So romantic.”
Len was circumspect. But played along. Fed and walked the dog. Then sat with Cathy on the couch waiting for metaphysical lightning to strike.
After midnight they finally decided to call it a night.
“Did you feel anything at all?” she asked.
“Woof,” he said, shooing away their spaniel.
🤣 Brilliant!
😊
Hahaha! That's great. It's made me laugh out loud :)
Had to go silly on a serious topic 😊
😅