Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid



Photo Courtesy of Prairie City News.


I wrote this piece for an upcoming writing challenge and I honestly couldn’t wait to share it with my own readers.  I had quite a bit of fun with this piece-and I hope you will enjoy the read as well. All feedback is welcome.


        He knew they loved this house once; with its front facing gable, ornamental parts and asymmetrical facade. They loved the musty smell of the cellar and the cedar. They even enjoyed the occasional mouse and spider that came out in the fall. He thought about those winter mornings when the cold hardwood on his bare feet woke him up better than a hot shower. And those nights they shared a glass of milk by the fireplace and argued about what they could fix next. Yet, when all had been refinished, the trusses somehow became exposed, exposed like her. Its bones and frame became fragile, and weak.

      Today, he stood outside, as if they had both only been strangers to this place, never making love in the tower, or spending hours on the woodwork; only to be left with blisters on their fingers and splinters in their knees; in this big, life-sized house that they had worked so hard to breathe the life back into. He always thought that houses were like people. They lived; they breathed and held dear to those who walked in its halls— and those who gave birth, and bled in the third floor corner room; crying at all the life placed before them. Our foundations and our frames may not be the same, but, houses too, keep secrets inside, and they see things they should never have to see. In turn, houses have to learn what it means to feel love, injury, and in the end succumb to those wounds; the only difference is houses just show it in different ways. Their paint chips, and the wood rots, cobwebs begin to cluster in groups as if they were lilies in the spring. Their parts are manicured in a way that ours could never be, making them stronger. Yet, houses too, can become broken. But, unlike her, they can always be rebuilt.



The life that pleats before you, was not different than your own,
But still, in its own way, beautiful, and worthy of love and of breath.
She is not some corrugated box to just be thrown away,
And then just left to sit out in the rain to mold, or to rot.

The dust that covers this life, are the moments that it once held dear.
Our language may be different,
Our ears might hear different things,
But our eyes still search for security, promise, and resources.

This life is worth more than ivory upon her chest,
But still, you continue to exploit it.
While you are on your quest for a trophy that you will never find.
Not here, not now.
You must first find it within yourself,
Until then, you hunt.

The Butcher

The Laundry Maid:

Exceptional piece-read, comment and share.

Originally posted on word is bond:

Into tiny squares, I’m feeling out of place.

Next to the pigs, I don’t belong, but here I am.

Waiting to be slaughtered, a tune that is familiar to my ears.

My peers understand, but offer nothing.

I mean, why should they, after all, I allowed myself to get caught.

My soul is pure, by my thoughts, well, they haven’t been for a long time.

A spine for the weak, that’s what is missing.

I’m kissing the stars, and the moon is vigil.

My sigil, the wolf.

I’ve been one for so long, that I must accept the consequences.

My senses have never failed me, but that doesn’t mean that I’m always right.

They say don’t try, just be, but what’s the point of being, if you don’t try?

What’s the point of a lie, if it doesn’t come with another?

What’s the point of loving a woman, if I…

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