Hell, Hell, Hell: Day 7 (More or Less) of National Poetry Month

Day 7: National Poetry Month

It was that kind of day, yesterday. Don’t get me wrong – my actual experience of the day was terrific! Went to lunch with my husband, did a little shopping (mostly for treats), planned vacations – wonderful and ordinary. All set against the backdrop of collective global stress and anxiety-inducing political strife. Most of it absolutely unnecessary and ridiculous.

Stressful and uninspiring on so many levels, and yesterday’s poetry prompts were no exception, really. Jumped the gun on “G”, screwed up the order of the alphabet, and on the brink of apocalyptic nonsense, the phrases “We’re all in Hell,” and “Hell, Hell, Hell” were the best I could do for the “clapping games” prompt. I wrote nothing, knowing that you, Dear Reader, deserve better – slighty better, anyway – than anything I could muster, yesterday.

Today’s post combines “clapping games,” in flash fiction and bad poetry, and the Featured image is an illustration based on this post plus the prompts “dawn and/or dusk” and “crumpled.” Thankfully, WWIII hasn’t started yet, so moving on, now… to Day 8.

We’re All in Hell

The children sat on the riverbank, playing clapping games while Miss Dread laid out their lunch.

"We're all in Hell, Hell, Hell -
     waiting on the bell, bell, bell.
We were bored to death, death, death -
     killed by Fred's bad breath, breath, breath!
It smells just like egg tarts -
     but that's just Fred's old farts!"

“I did not fart!” yelled Fred, red-faced with indignation.

“Enough, children! Come eat,” called Miss Dread, raising one eyebrow at the little miscreants.

Styx was burning like the Cuyahoga in 1969, but no one seemed to mind. Dispirited souls, unmoored from flesh yet unaware that they were free of its constraints,  wandered up and down the riverbank. Jenny shivered as one passed right through her without pause.

Jenny didn’t like it here. It really did smell like Fred’s farts. She wanted to go back to the classroom. “Miss Dread?”

“Yes, Jenny?”

“Why don’t they see us here?” Jenny wasn’t used to being ignored so thoroughly.

Kevin picked up a cooling ember and threw it at one of the lost souls. He got no reaction, either. This was the weirdest field trip ever.

“They are lost, Jenny,” said Miss Dread, reaching out lightning-fast to grasp Kevin by the wrist and instill real dread with a small shake of her head. “They cannot return to the life they remember, but they don’t know yet whether to cross the river or remain here, on this side.”

“But can’t they see us?” She was used to grown-ups staring right through her, but none had ever walked through her without knocking her down. An old lady had done that, once, during a big sale at the mall. But she had noticed Jenny, then, and turned to say, “Impertinent child!” as if Jenny had bowled her over. For some reason, her mother had insisted Jenny apologize to the old bat.

“We are only visiting. Ask Mr. Mott to explain plane geometry to you, later. They are on a different plane.” Jenny wasn’t so sure. She had felt the chill as one of the lost souls passed through her. She didn’t know much about plane geometry, but she was fairly certain it didn’t work that way.

Kevin’s brow furrowed as he tried to work it out. He had been on planes before. Most recently, on a family trip to visit his grandparents in Idaho. “Weirdest plane ever,” he muttered.

Jenny picked up a chunk of fruit from her plate and examined it in the light of the burning river. “What is this, Miss Dread?”

“Pomegranate. Give it a try, Jenny.”

Jenny popped one of the seeds into her mouth and chewed, making a face. “Eww,” she said, spitting it out. “That’s nast–” The darkness that had surrounded the children closed around them like an oily mist, cutting off the rest of Jenny’s sentence, along with her breath.

Swimming out of the thick, inky blackness, Jenny gasped and opened her eyes to a blinding light. She shivered until someone wrapped her in a warm blanket. “Got her back,” said a woman, smiling and shining a tiny flashlight in each of her eyes. “Hi, Jenny. You had us worried for a bit.”

Other National Poetry Month Posts

• National Poetry Month, Texas Style!
• Apricots: a Tanka Encompassing Three Prompts
• Bee Sting: Day 2 of National Poetry Month
• Cacophony and CBD: Day 3 in Nonsense Verse and Found Poetry
• Technically, a Writer: Day 3 of National Poetry Month
• Dive: Day 4 of National Poetry Month
• Storm Front: Day 4 of National Poetry Month
• Energized: Day 5 of National Poetry Month
• Grump: Day 5 ½ of National Poetry Month
• Future Frittered Away: Day 6 of National Poetry Month
• Hell, Hell, Hell: Day 7 (More or Less) of National Poetry Month
• Insomnia: Day 8 of National Poetry Month
• Juxtaposition: Day 9 of National Poetry Month
• Knife Edge: Day 10 of National Poetry Month
• Lost a Day: Day 11 of National Poetry Month
• Many Definitions: Day 12 of National Poetry Month
• New Form – Quadrille Quaiku: Day 13 of National Poetry Month
• Ode to Imagination: Day 14 of National Poetry Month
• Pixellated People: Day 15 of National Poetry Month