Thursday 12 November 2020


She has cut it out, her heart. 

She has stitched it together, it was broken. 

It is now tethered to her wrist by a string. 


It floats.  It beats. 

It is… (cold   (it is as frigid as ice))


“Beautiful, YOU are” he says as he lies down beside her

(it’s not the he, the heartless heartbreaker

but some unfortunate sap who just doesn’t get

that he’s plain out of his luck.)


He will die, this is certain, for the sins of the other,

the absentee lover who left her dejected rejected

that broke up her heart


She allows him to take her.  He takes her

and heightened with  passion she brings the knife down.

She roughly rolls him aside and he pleads with her quietly,

quiet quizzical Whys(?) filling his emptying eyes.


His lights have gone out – she feels both loss and elation.

She gathers her senses, carves out his heart,

flash fries it (in butter), then consumes it with gusto

with relish and tatties, fried onions and peas. 

Yum!  Yum!


She smiles…

One down and countless to go!

Hoorah!  Hoorah!  Hoorah!


Anna :o]

Just in case you’re worried, I love men, well most men, but I don’t love all women either (except in pies…). 

Words for the lovely Magaly who is hosting P&SU Weekly Scribblings#45: Artistic Interpretations and whose inspirational prompts are of three images.  (I have used two and the image above is “Carnival Dreams”, by Shelle Kennedy.  The words “Beautiful YOU are” re “Beautiful, YOU are”, by Magic Love Crow)

Also shared with the good folk at dVerse Open Link Night hosted by the lovely Linda.  Cheers Linda!

Friday 6 November 2020


Under the guise of nonchalance,

she quickly resets her bones,

stitches her gaping wounds

and paints a smile on her face.


It is imperative he sees her smile.  

That smile,

that smile of gratitude, of humility,

that smile of acceptance,

that smile of knowing her place in his world.   


that tiny space, forever closing in.


She sets the table.

(He will be home soon.)

(He is home now.)


She plates the dinner; it must be set so precisely.

The meat from nine to three o’clock,

the potatoes, mashed (absolutely no lumps)

milked and buttered at three to six

and the rest of time filled with peas

(garden) buttered and counted –

their numbers must be even,

God they must be even!


The gravy,   shimmering with meat juices,

just the right thickness fills two thirds of the boat. 

(Perfect she thinks and feels the excitement the joy of success,

of doing the right things for her man).

(He will be pleased; of this she is (almost) certain...)


He sits, glares at her, his mouth a snarl,

her smile momentarily drops but she quickly resets it;

nervous now, hands shaking, chest near imploding…

she waits…


He trawls the plate with his fork,

searching for desired imperfections…

he is counting the peas,

looks up with that look in his eyes

and his fists hammer down on the table. 

(God the pea count is wrong,

the pea count is wrong, the pea count is wrong!)


He explodes in a fury, his fists battle her body

and battered and bruised she drops to the floor. 

YOU’RE FECKING USELESS! (he screeches),

slapping that smile off  her face, kicking her foetal-curled body,

and he turns on his feet, shouts obscenities, storms out of the room,

slamming the door behind him.  She cries…


She composes herself, resets her bones,

stitches her wounds, paints on her smile,

huddles in her tiny space, her ever so tiny space,  

disappearing (as she is)

in ever decreasing circles…


Anna  :o]

Written for  – cheers for the prompt Rommy!

(I can't figure out how to do links on New Blogger so will have to try and get my head round it...)

Image (the nearest I could find):  Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons  - 'Photo © Acabashi'  ‘Steak and ale pie at Sainsbury's Low Hall, Chingford, London