In response to Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge – December 28, 2021 by DEVEREAUX FRAZIER and BETH AMANDA – Today’s prompt: Use “my sins beyond” in any form of writing.
She told us, she warned us repeatedly through story, through song and finally, she showed us. Even with the showing, we did not listen. Even when chaos reigned down on us from above, when fiery rockets of molten lava spewed from below, when oceans rose and deserts disappeared; still we did not listen. We forced her hand and being who she is, she could not, would not back down.
We became the enemy. We became the infestation. We who had been given this paradise of greenery, of sustenance, of life; repeated our own history without garnering one single learned moment from the eons and eons of quiet pleas, the unheard cries, the high decibel screams she issued. The animals could hear, the flowers and the plants could hear, the mountains, the seas, the deserts and the trees could hear. But we could not hear. We did not hear. We would not hear. Some did. Some heard and tried to rally around the trees, the oceans, the deserts and the flowers; but they weren’t enough or they too, were too late.
To join in Melanie’s Share Your World, just click here SHARE YOUR WORLD QUESTIONS
What is your least favorite holiday side dish? (for any holiday) Cranberry sauce
What is the ugliest or most tasteless decoration you’ve ever seen? Skeleton Santa and elves. Ewwhh!
What is a cherished or unusual (either or both) family tradition from your childhood? Mother always placed two full boxes of silver tinsel on the tree after Dad had strung the lights and we had hung the ornaments. She would hang each strand one at a time perfectly over each branch, starting at the top all the way to the bottom. It was the only time she didn’t have a cigarette in her hand.
You’re walking down the street, feeling great — what holiday song would be playing in the background?Mannheim Steamroller’s Carol of the Bells
She could not believe they were talking about her junk like that when she’d worked for years building it up, until finally it had become a beautiful work of art, at least to her.
Continuing down the long alleyway towards her home was probably a mistake but, she had finished long ago letting other people’s opinions affect her mood, her outlook on life and most importantly, her heart.
Passing yet another building gone defunct, being resurrected from the filth and ashes it had become victim to by those hippie preppie do-gooders who knew nothing about her city, her people and certainly not her culture; she ignored the rude cat calls and lewd innuendoes spit down from a height of the building she would never see the inside of.
The guys whistled as she sashayed past, her firm, full ass rivaled only by her voluminous chest bouncing wildly while she ambled her way home carrying her new treasure, thinking they only wish they could get their hands on her junk before she could cross the railroad tracks to get home exhausted, trying to keep those guys from overstepping and touching her junk inappropriately.
Placing the newly acquired, rusty bike fender in her garden took some time because everything had its place in her world, then she found the perfect spot beside the mangled, front tire of that bicycle she’d found laying in the snow last winter, she stood relishing the beauty of the junk that was just hers before slipping beneath the curtain of the cardboard box she called home.
Inside her little home she slid beneath the warmth of those woolen blankets the nice lady from the church had given her, not remembering her name or what church she came from but thankful for her blessings, none-the-less.
“I’m telling you that thing has to be destroyed!” The left-winger bellowed. “It’s a demon set upon us by those free thinking liberals! Kill it! Kill it!”
“That is certainly no demon but the Angel Gabreill himself, sent down from the very heavens to aid us in our campaign against the uprising and those that would entertain war mongering and cultural genocide!” A soft spoken right-winger responded.
The progressive, who sat quietly observing the melee added, “We should capture it and paint it and put it on display for all the world to see and learn from!”
The historian warned against revisionist history. The pope admonished those wishing to remove a religious effigy from its original placement. A mechanic chimed in and said he could lift it away, for a fee. The real estate agent offered to place it on the market and the mason could take it or leave it, whichever would be fine.
The little girl stood beneath the angel’s wings, looking up into the stoic face of the concrete monolith.
“It’s just a statue guys, leave it alone. It is, what it is,” she sighed, shaking her head as she walked away, leaving the chaos of adulthood behind.
Gypsie’s Wonderful World of Words 
