Tag: TV

a means to an end & a body for sale (on clearance)

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Two poems shared on Substack notes

Fictional character Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan as a cartoon. Created with Google Gemini

a means to an end

Bones… a show I
can watch over and
over again–the
reruns are salve;
balm for my
crowded mind–a
distraction.

sometimes, on
heavy days, a
distraction is what
I need.

to witness complex
cases, albeit fatal
fiction, I disappear
in their plot twists
and fall victim to
their endings.

funny how the things
that gross me out
in my dreams
invigorate me while
I’m awake.

who’s murdering
who is more than
a pertinent question,
it’s a means to
an end.

AI-Generated Image: A Black woman with locs, wearing glasses, semi-doubled over in pain.

a body for sale (on clearance)

I’m at an age now
when a hard and
awkward sleep can
throw my back out
or a sneeze from the
depths of my soul
can summon
tinnitus.

the body is a weird
thing to observe.
how fragile we can
become when we
think we’re at our
strongest.

we can be swiftly
reminded of just how
easy it is to injure
oneself without
force or torture.
depreciating value…

like a brand new
vehicle the moment
you drive it off the
lot.

clearanced and
marked down,
wanted only
because we’re now
cost-effective and a
hot commodity.

everyone wants the
cheapest version of
you.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing, as I discuss recent events related to my previous place of employment, including racism and discrimination, the growth I experienced after resigning from that company, and the foibles and overall experiences of life. I welcome your visit.

But Aren’t We All Spinning Now?

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AI-Generated Image. Created with Google Gemini. A White man with short, messy hair, standing in the middle of nowhere, holding up a crumpled letter. He is dressed in faded jeans with a matching jacket. He is wearing glasses and has a mustache running into a beard. Above him, the sky is dark & gloomy.

I caught the last forty-five minutes
of Spinning Man, and wondered
how I had never seen such a
trainwreck of a movie before. 

I won’t bore you with the details:
it is enough to make one’s head 
roll. Men have been coercing
women into the bowels of 
dysfunction for eons.

This shouldn’t be any different. 
It wasn’t. I think I’d just had my
fill of creepiness and absurdities
for half a year. 

Isn’t it something, though? 
To remember what never happened
and not remember what has? 
To spin while standing in place? 
Aren’t we all spinning now? 

The carousel of life is packed
with people losing their minds
under the guise of “survival of
the fittest,” and soon, we’ll all
be damned.

Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?

I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with my place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

Edward Parker

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Flash Fiction

Photo by camilo jimenez on Unsplash

Ed tossed the remote control to the far right end of the couch after flipping channels for the twentieth time. He slid back in his reclining massage chair, pressed the button to activate the slow pulse on his lumbar spine, and sank into the peacefulness of the night.

Sadie had been gone since Tuesday, and it was Friday. She decided to visit her big sister, Sweetie. She hadn’t seen her in four years.

The WWE’s intro sounded throughout the entire living room. He blinked his eyes a few times to keep from falling asleep. Although he never missed an episode, he struggled tonight to stay awake.

Working the second shift at the power plant was starting to wear on his middle-aged bones. Years ago, he could pull a double, parade around town until 3 in the morning, and still wake up to get another day going at work.

Those days are long gone now. Everything hurts. Even his fingernails. But money’s got to be made.

He silently berated himself for tossing the remote to the far right of the couch. The chair had gotten comfortable and he didn’t want to get up.

He smacked his weary lips, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled for his oldest child to come downstairs.

The young one appeared; doe-eyed and slightly aggravated.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Edward Sloane Parker, Jr., reach on over there on that couch and get your daddy the remote control, will you.”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement — a cool command. Ed, Jr. shuffled past his dad, leaned over hastily, scooped up the remote, and tossed it in his dad’s lap.

“That it?”

“Yeah, son. That’ll do me.”

The night air crept into the cracks of their old Victorian home, Ed settled into the grip of the reclining massage chair, pressed the volume up button on the remote, and closed his eyes.

“I’ll just rest them for a few. I won’t even miss the main event,” he whispered to the thin air.

When Ed woke up, the sun was beaming down on his beady eyes and the kids were racing downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast.

He missed the main event. He missed the whole damn show.

Originally published in Hinged.press via Medium.