Hello, and welcome back! I’m so glad you’ve decided to pop onto my little corner of the internet for a couple minutes. 🙂
Today I’m sharing part 2 of my short story written entirely in free verse poetry. If you haven’t read part 1, make sure to click here to catch up on that before reading this next poem.
Fun fact about this story: I wrote the whole thing in one evening. Now, if I don’t tell you that this because it was due at 10 am the following morning and I procrastinated on it for three weeks until less than 24 hours before the deadline, that sounds like a mildly impressive feat. But in actuality was just me leaving a work meeting early to go and panic plan and then panic write for 3 hours because the deadline was looming large and I didn’t really have a clue to write about. That said, I did end up being rather pleased with what I produced… I wouldn’t recommend the whole ‘procrastinating and then panic writing’ thing though – just because it worked for me doesn’t mean it will for you. I probably took a year off my life with the amount of stress I went through in that three hour stretch. 😀
Ok, enough chatter. Shall we get on to the actual story? Here it is – poem #2, titled Break Fast.
Sometimes I wish Daddy didn’t see me.
When his eyes are red like that,
I know trouble’s steaming –
like the coffee Mama brews
fresh for him every morning.
His voice catches in his throat
over the breakfast table.
It’s mumbly and heavy in the corners of his mouth.
He slumps in his chair
like the sack of potatoes in the pantry,
looks at me with those eyes,
asks me to pass the butter.
Maybe I’m too quick about it,
or maybe I’m too slow.
Either way the trouble brewing
breaks like a sudden summer storm.
His hand – a thunderclap.
Before I know what’s what,
the butter dish is smashed into the floor,
and the room is spinning round me,
and there are stars bursting in the corners of my eyes
like tiny, teary fireworks.
“Useless girl,” he growls.
“Get up and get that cleaned up.”
I slowly peel myself off the floor,
brushing butter dish shards off my knees.
My hands are bright with butter and new blood.
Mornings like these make me wish
Daddy couldn’t see me.
Come back next week for part 3!
Let’s chat in the comments! Are you a ‘procrastinate and then panic write‘ sort of writer? Or are you one of those illusive people that plans everything out and actually finishes more than 10 hours before a deadline? (if you are, please share your wisdom with me. Pretty sure I could use it :D)