On New Year's Eve

Okay, this is a flash fiction piece for a writing contest. The prompt is: New Years and the prompt words  are: Firework, party, mahogany, pebble, and phone.

Also, I'm looking for a better title.
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            There’s this old mansion on 17^th East and 2^nd South that’s built out of a cruise ship from the 1920’s. It stands there, on the end of the street, dark and empty and gathering dust all day and all night.

            But once a year, on New Year’s Eve, the lights come on. Music and laughter –the sounds of dancing and meaningless chatter– fill up the empty expanse of the old house. Crystal glasses clang together in a toast for the New Year, and the aromas of turkey and roast beef cling to the windows where silhouettes appear of people long since dead.

            On New Year’s Eve, the Nameless Ghosts of Forgotten People dance across the mahogany floors. They sing and talk and eat and laugh. They shoot off lights into the sky and call them fireworks. They attract the attention of the Daylight People (living, I mean), with whom they chatter in a language that we can’t understand. And, they think they’re speaking English, but they’re not. They’re speaking Stones.

 On New Year’s Eve, it’s become the tradition of Little Children to throw pebbles at the windows of the mansion to grab the interest of the Nameless Ghosts in hopes of being let inside. The Children play games with the Ghosts. They play hopscotch and checkers and hula-hoop, if they are permitted.

The Ghosts make jokes with the Children, and the Children understand. They laugh. The Children speak Stones: Life hasn’t beaten that out of them, yet.

The bell tolls midnight. The party will continue until daybreak, but it is time for the Little Children to return to bed. The Children and the Ghosts share their final words with each other. They make promises and eternities. Promises they will try and will not keep.

Promises are forgotten.

And eternity –Eternity is lonely.

The clock ticks on, and the night grows steadfast. One such Ghost, a child, makes conversation with the woman who, in life, she would’ve known as her mother. Neither party remembers the other. Neither party remembers the grief, the sorrow, the pain. Neither party remembers names. Neither party remembers the words they would’ve said in life; instead, they talk about the weather. For one night a year, these Faceless Ghosts gather together to laugh and sing and make small talk with people they might have known in life –or maybe not; they can’t remember, anymore.

By three am, the Daylight People have gone home.

By four am, the dancing has stopped.

By five am, the music fades.

By six, the mansion is silent: they’ve forgotten how to make noise.

By seven, they’ve begun to look the same.

By eight, a phone rings. No one answers. The house is empty.

There’s this old mansion on 17^th East and 2^nd South that’s built out of a cruise ship from the 1920’s. It stands there, on the end of the street, dark and empty and gathering dust all day and all night.

But once a year, on New Year’s Eve, the lights come on. There’s a lively little party for people who have been abandoned by Time. People without names or faces, who think they’re alive, but they’re not. They’re dead.

And one day, we’ll be there, too. One day, we’ll join the Ranks of the Forgotten. And, on New Year’s Eve we’ll travel to this old mansion on 17^th East and 2^nd South and we’ll throw a party.

Burning

There once was a man

            and we thought—

because he can

This place could be different

and things might change.

The sun wouldn’t spill

and the faces

could re-arrange.

His hands were like gold,

            they sparkled,

and were

cold.

His eyes were dusty

and like chains

                        he got rusty.

This man held our cores

            and he burned us like hell.

Something different—

            something new—

We wanted to change.

                        from clumsy chores to anything more.

We wanted to go places.

            Go places—

            See faces.

So he told us we would

            and he burned us like hell.

We blazed like gold

            so he melted his hands.

We shone like dawn

            so the dust blew away.

We roared like God

            so the rust faded gone.

And the man was changed

            Changed—

Re-arranged.

            Something different—

Something new.

Then he flew away.

And the sun began to leak

and the faces melted in.

And we blazed and blazed

                        and burned like hell.

Dream Song 29 Mimic

Mimics are funnn. I tried to copy and paste John Berryman's Dream Song 29 here but it wouldn't let me...I've done a few Dream Song mimics and they are great, I highly recommend trying it out.

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart só heavy, if he had a hundred years & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time Henry could not make good. Starts again always in Henry's ears the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime. And there is another thing he has in mind like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; thinking. But never did Henry, as he thought he did, end anyone and hacks her body up and hide the pieces, where they may be found. He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing. Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up. Nobody is ever missing. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of.  Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late.  This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

---

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of.  Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late.  This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

---

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15208#sthash.aVac7c6R.dpuf

A little something crouched there on Charlie's inside
a little something so big
no nothing of everything ever
could he make something go.
Churning always behind Charlie's teeth
the something itched and scratched and ached.

And there is another littlebig something latched to the roof
of his mouth like sunken gold glued to the ocean
that no time could pull free. Blankly,
with cheeks bulging, he sits, stopped.
The sizzle of singed skin says: gone. This
goes on as something crawls.

When did Charlie, when he thought he didn't
dig it up and tear it apart
and with his teeth store it away.
He checked counted cold all gone.
It drags him awake to see such empty.
Something pulls free and in.

Philosophy

I wrote this during philosophy. Don't get me wrong, I love that class. It just sometimes feels tedious and I pity Dr. Bennet and how much effort he puts into pulling us along.

Blank stares like fresh cut ham frame
the naked circle.
Plato weighs down my left
shoulder watching the limp discussion
of his life's work drag
itself through our fleshy
fingers leaving a
trail of faint recollection.
Someone tries to pick up
the sweaty mess and
toss it into
action but the unlucky receiver
fumbles
and the tangle of
philosophy careens into
the whiteboard with a wet
slap and
we watch it slip to the
granola carpet ground
and settle.