Day Sixteen- Weighted Breaths

Day sixteen – Weighted Breaths, for th and prompt, ‘balloons shaped like anchors’. 

We’re in the second half already! How time flies!

How’s your April going?


Yusra ❤️



He had that odd sort of melancholy
That stilled everything around him, gently
rippling, like a shimmer, like
the ground does, on a searing hot day
when the sun bears down with all its intensity
He had that.
Dry, parched- but not barren
Simply lying in wait
He had that
He had his aura and his atmosphere
He carried his own gravity

How could I stay away?
How could I not be drawn in?
This man walked beside me
With worlds within him




I want to stop believing, sometimes, I do

But I take one look at you, and I hope anew.

Between all the constant upheavals and interruptions in my life, you are the one constant.

I wish you would read, I wish you would know.

Know and appreciate how precious everything I give you is.

But there are some mountains even hope can’t climb.

And that’s just how it is.



For The Story – The Old Bachelor’s Respite

The Old Bachelor’s Respite





I called her over for dinner
The table was bedecked, lavishly spread
Her place was set with the first soup, and salad
-Wine and a delicate vinaigrette
She walked in demurely, arm in the crook of my arm
And at the sight, very nearly lost her head


At the sight of her, I very nearly lost my head


She sat down gracefully, into the chair I pulled
It was very clear that she was visibly thrilled
The white arch of her throat stark against the blood red ruffle
Her gaze fluttered alluringly in my direction, calling
I took deep breaths to inhale her, compose myself, and stilled
My forced calm went unseen
She lingered lustfully on each dish instead
I knew it right then,
I just had to get into her head


I poured her another glassful, her eyes sparkling, crystal cut
The effort it took to restrain my appetite, was too much
Fork clashing with knife, a vessel overflowing with life, such
Was the pull that I almost left my own food untouched
The subtle press of her fingers on mine, as I passed the bread
Intoxicant for my vintage, I simply had to hurry
She was already getting ahead

They all threatened to get ahead
-I took a deep breath-
They never did
I was hungry, I decided petulantly
Dinner was served
Now it really was time I fed


I walked around to pour her one more, just
One more innocent glass
In a moment, her duck l’orange was cooling patiently, congealing
Into an indistinguishable meaty mass
Because her knife would descend no more, nor would
The orgasmic sigh, so softly, sound
She lay half splayed in her chair, lifelessly
As the blood pooled upon the ground
Her eyes were fixed, her face a rictus
A death mask, a last oh how could you!
I ignored it, pretty but mere accessory, as I chewed
Through that elegant neck’s sinews
Contorted, no doubt, but salty and delicious
-fresh is always best, as I’ve often said

I picked up the fork from her limp held fingers
It was time to get into her head




Written for the story, The Old Bachelor’s Respite, found on Reddit.



Cheers, and bon appetit. 😉


Abnormally Normal Anne- Fight, Flight, and Fright.


Abnormally Normal Anne

The Diary of a Surprisingly Un-Demented Mind

Entry 31

Warning- This is going to be a long one. It’s been one of those days. You know, when you haven’t made it halfway through the day yet, but it feels like you’ve run a marathon. Or done 2.375  x 10^23 push ups. Or climbed Mt. Everest with one hand tied behind your back. Yeah, one of those kind.

The day started in the strangest way possible. Someone was hammering at the gate in the wee hours of the morning, and when the Mad Hatter stumbled out, he saw that someone had left a tiny (and I kid you not, like three to four inches with tail), tiny kitten in front of the gate.  In a surprising rush of worry, he picked him and ran in and handed him over to me. He’s a tiny little fluffball, the newest member of our nuthouse. I’d put him at about ten days, but severely malnourished. I guess I’m a mommy yet again, lol.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Thing One found two more kittens, presumably of the same litter, mewing pitifully on the porch of an empty house down the road. I suppose whoever abandoned them didn’t notice that the house wasn’t just quiet, it was unoccupied. Thing One got the two kittens home too, and they’re snoozing wrapped up in my pajamas right now. They’re very weak, but I’ve done this before, so it won’t be too difficult. The next two or three weeks will be all about feeding them every two hours and rubbing them down to make them pee. Kittens are a devil of a job, but worth every minute of the grub.

The Mad Hatter was alternating between being a tyrant and being a trout all day. I suppose even he couldn’t help be as vacant as a trout after he’d ground us down into the ground. As if the morning chores and the tub of freshly washed clothes tossed into the muddy yard for no good reason wasn’t enough, one of the Hatter’s many clueless friends dropped by with twelve crates of fresh fruit from his orchard. Now, the poor fellow probably thought we’d  love having all the fruit around, but the Hatter had other plans. Apparently some Blah and Blah from BlahBlahland had asked him if he could send them that specific fruit when he gets the chance. Long story short, I spent the entire day dunking, washing, drying and packing everything from the crates into different boxes and sending them around. There have to be some sort of minimum wage or labor laws about housework, seriously. I swear, if someone as much as asks me if I want to eat fruit for the rest of the month, I’m going to stick a banana in their eye.

Thing Two got me into trouble again as well. She hasn’t been studying, and she doesn’t give a midget bunny’s behind no matter what I say. Now, the Hatter wouldn’t bother much, except that he has this mad (obviously) notion that if I teach her enough, I can get her IQ as high as mine.  I don’t even know what to say to that. It was probably one of the worst days of my life when the Hatter found my IQ out. Every thing has been shoved my nose since then, from how to use an oxyacetylene torch to where to put a comma. And in any other situation I’d like the chance to help. With the Hatter though, it’s a tug of war between his needing my elbow grease and resenting my presence, my very existence, that His Exalted HeadupButtNess had to ask my advice.

Then came the mandatory religious sermon. And the throwing books. And the warnings that my marks better be in the top ten percentile or I could forget about studying after this year. Sure, I don’t mind studying. Heck, I like studying, and I’m lame enough to say that on a public platform. But surely even a demented mind will see, that for me to study, you actually need to let me study? Du-uuuuuh!!!

Oh and yeah, I slipped and fell twice in the day. Once when I was one of those tossed out blankets in the rain, and the second when I thought I could carry a heavy box across the mud slicked yard to the storage ( I couldn’t, obviously. Slipped and jerked the entire weight of it onto my left arm, and now it hurts like a bitch). Boo for mud. And boxes. A bit of solace came when my favorite squeeze kissed it away, so it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. (No really, it doesn’t! I’m not lying at all! 😛 )

Suffice to say, I’m not a pretty picture right now, mentally or physically. I’m going to crawl into bed and do my best imitation of dead for the next six hours, after which I have to finish reading around 2000 pages. But then, that’s still more fun that 2000 feckin’ oranges, so yay in a way.

Oh well, tomorrow’s another day.

Till tomorrow then,

Abnormally Normal Anne.

The Room of Death and the Open Door



The Room of Death




There is a room in my house, tucked away quietly in the corner, with a bed in it. I often come here, to sit and watch, how different things are from the sidelines.

It is not my room, but every now and then, I make it mine. It is the room of death.

Things are… different here. Perceptions laid askew, reality turned upside down, then sideways twice, for good measure. I don’t mean that the roof is on the ground. Not like that, no. More as if I was watching everything flip itself inside out.

Especially when I look out through the door, just a few feet away. It’s always open, and I can see well into the next room, and beyond, full of what ifs and if onlys.  ‘If’ doesn’t exist here ,and I can never tell if they’re real. Who’s to know if this is real, anyway. Who’s to know if I’m real?

It’s about a minute, an hour, or a night trapped in time. You feel nothing here, most days when you come in, you don’t feel yourself. It’s where you come for that very emptiness, to stop feeling. To stop caring. To stop.

The price is death, though. You won’t notice till you’ve walked out again, but you smell of death. I know, because I’ve smelt of death. It’s a faintly sweetish smell, but overpoweringly evocative… Unpleasant even, laced with so many promises… Of peace, of reunion, of rest.. And nearly all of them as malignant as beguiling. There is not one worth taking death up for. Not willingly, at least.

And I smell of death. When i leave, it’s all over me. On my clothes, on my skin. I bathe thrice a day to get it off, and hope that it’ll leave me alone and unblemished. So it does, obediently. The tarnish isn’t something you and I can see anyway. It runs deeper than that.
And it calls you back.

It calls you back, every few weeks or so.

Before you know it, you’ve strayed out of the cheery corridors of normalcy, into that strange, strange room. With its barred windows, and locked doors. The cupboards full of dusty books. The table, the chair. And the bed.

But what a sleep you find awaits you, on that broad mattress, where it’s never too hot or too cold. My feet go numb, when they touch the floor. So deliciously numb, the nothingness, the soundlessness. The stillness and the bed, in that room of death. They call me, they call out to me every time I stay in colors too long. There is a bit of me that belongs there, and finds no rest amidst the confusion, the chaos of light. And so I return, to the room of death.


Maybe this will be the last time.










The Open Door

The door was always open
I preferred the dark, though
Needles in the shadows,
Thoughts were no one should go,
That dark is a good friend

There are dancing figures on the wall
Some spilling onto my bed,
Some laughing about the dead
Pin pricks glinting off the red,
Those dancing figures are good friends

There were crosses on the window
Tossed, tangled blankets on the floor
Whispers calling out for more,
Drowning out the galloping roars,
Those whispers are good friends

Eventually it’ll all end
The pillow indent that knows me
The thumping, straining heart beat,
Pumping, draining habitually,
That straining heart is my friend.

I can lay here, I can watch,
Light spilling in through the crack
Inch by inch, pushing my shadows back,
I’d like the world to fade to black
Black Is a very good friend

But that damned door will have his way
Needles and pinpricks, then, just for today..


A story and a poem. I wonder, does that make a story poem?

A secret for you, from my secret room. Hush….