“You Must Like Butter” By Raymond Roy #writephoto #domesticabuse

“You Must Like Butter” By Raymond Roy #writephoto

The bright yellow flowers were reminiscent of when as a child, we would hold a dandelion under each other’s chin. If your chin reflected yellow, it meant you liked butter.

The fringes on the brand new fat rubber tires created a whirring sound as the whipped against the bicycle frame. A campfire effect of the warm sun on my back with a cool headwind brought a clammy sweat to the hair on the back of my neck.

Turning off the road onto a cleared soil path carved in the canola field, the ground was like a grainy dampened beach. The soil almost pebble-like yet firm enough to keep me moving forward. The canola plants were in full bloom.

The musky sweet scent sang a sirens song to the nectar drunken, pollen-laden sleepy bees as they made their way to work.

I found it difficult to keep my mouth full closed as my upper lip continued to swell. The iron rich salty blood crusted on my lower lip, the crimson vital fluid I had swallowed, sat in my stomach like a dagger.

At the base of the ridge I coasted under the bridge to the coal shadowed stream. As I ducked under the bridge. A small cloud formed from my warm breath as it floated out from the shade into the sunlight.

Pulling my hoodie sleeves up, I plunged my swollen hands into the icy stream. Cupping water up to my puffy lip, it was difficult to drink as if I just came back from the dentist. I took off my hoodie. Washing my face and the back of my neck felt good, I felt alert.

A few river rocks rolled down toward me. I sat down, on the moss laden bank, knowing they had come for me. “Melissa Taylor!! “ a voice yelled from atop the bridge. “Melissa Taylor!!, We have a warrant for your arrest!”

“What took ya so long?” , I yelled back. As I sat in the back of the squad car I remembered they left my new bike back there. They one he forbade me to buy(with my own money), hopefully a needy child will find it and make good use of it.

“Why did you kill him Melissa?”

“Just keeping a promise.”drool stringing down as I struggled to be articulate, “I promised he would die the next time he laid a hand on me.”

The full sun had come out, I could see my reflection looking from the backseat into the side mirror of the car. My whole face had a yellow glow from the golden fields.

I guess that means I like really like butter.

Peace

Goroyboy

Domestic Violence.

If you are a victim or know a victim of domestic violence, you are not alone. You are not what someone else says you are. You are who YOU say you are. Domestic Violence Help Line

Written for Sue Vincent’s # writephoto photo prompt. Thanks Sue for hosting.

The Message By Raymond Roy #writephoto

The Message By Raymond Roy

If I could talk what would I say, to the Lummi, the Shuswap, and Ojibwe

I would share my sorrow of broken *Magic Pots, of runs of Salmon, no longer caught.

Empty plains are where the Bison would run,

Wiped from Mother Earth, like a setting sun.

Dignity destroyed by Firewater, making orphans of both son and daughter.

If I could talk, much to my dismay, man would not listen, Yes he, God’s very own creation, from the Mother Earth’s clay.

Blind greed for gold and oil desecrates sacred lands, destroying our Nations, our tribes, and our bands.

To all the nations, empower the child, to embrace Mother Earth, the wind, and the wild.

Be fathers to your children, watch dignity grow, mankind may depend, on this message, from The Crow.

-Peace

-Goroyboy

Written for Sue Vincent’s Photo Prompt Thank you to Sue!

*There is an Ojibwe story of Magic pots that encouraged creativity and had special powers. Five little girls broke the pots and intern were turned into crows, and from that day forward the Ojibwe made no pottery.

“Mists” By Raymond Roy #writephoto

She leaned back into the tree hoping that her natural curves would blend in with the silhouette of the mature oak tree. She had run all night, her throat was parched. Torturously, a heavy mist hung thick in the morning air..she could feel the clay drawing all the moisture out of her feet. Sweat saturated her thin cotton work dress. Cotton, how she hated even the thinking of that word.

She could hear the dogs barking across the field, but she dare not look. As the fog began to dissipate, a curious squirrel stopped for a look, clacking it yellow teeth together emitting a territorial chirp. The trunk of the mighty oak was carpeted with a thick layer of moss it felt good against her scarred back. Subtly she turned and faced the moss. Like a butterfly gathering nectar, she pursed her lips and with a gentle flicking motion of her tongue, gathered the surface tension strained dew droplets from atop the many tiny moss rosettes.

She knew that moss primarily grew on the North side of a tree. She now had her bearings. North. To freedom.

-Goroyboy

Written for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt fiction.

Fear No Evil by Raymond Roy. #writephoto

Shackled to a 4×4 beam.  Shoulders ached. 12 hours earlier, The Pharisees had returned a verdict of guilty. Guilty of not following doctrine. For daring to question ritualistic antiquited practices. Immediately, they strapped the timber behind my neck and across my shoulders sent me off into the desert. Feet raw, and head throbbing, I approached what seemed a porthole, I could see a green valley on the other side. You could hear the bubbling sound of a stream. Just to the left of the entryway, a prominent hieroglyph was etched. “With burdens of the world, no man shall pass and enter… “. 
There was no way the large timber would pass through the porthole. Digging deep, I proceeded to bang the beam against the granite walls. Skin rubbed raw, freshly burst blisters stinging from salty sweat and blood. One final thrust and I was free. Finding my balance, I reapproached the portal and dusted away the remaining portion of the hieroglyph.  “With burdens of the world, no man shall pass and enter into the valley of the shadow of death. “

Written for Sue Vincent’s  Photo prompt  #writephoto Special thanks to Sue for Hosting! 

The Pact By Raymond Roy #writephoto

The Pact
Just as he reached up for the knocker, the door eerily swing open. Deep into the remote cottage yellow sunshine cut into the pitch black recesses. True divided lites in the aged handcrafted wood windows created a checkerboard pattern on the terra-cotta tile floor. In the beams of light, elongated dust particles danced, almost suspended like mosquito larvae in long forgotten stagnant pond. 
 “Enter, I’ve been waiting for you”. 
A sulphur-like scent hung in the air. “Would you care for something to drink?, We have allot to talk about”. 

“Yeah sure,,Scotch on the rocks would be great”

“Scotch? Not a problem,as I am sure you can appreciate, Ice is difficult to keep around here.”
With a nervous dry response, (stuttering)”yeah, I guess forgot about that.” 

“So,,,,,,well done on the Paris agreement”…. “the warmer the world is that you promised to deliver to me, the better.”
“Hey, ya mind if we crack a window open? Getting a little toasty in here.” 

Written for Sue Vincent’s Photo Prompt Thanks Sue! 

The Longing by Raymond Roy : Stones #writephoto

The Longing 

Nails clicking waiting. Joelle’s heavily lipsticked full crimson lips stuck together, slowly separating as her jaw dropped. Her warm breath gently billowed into the cool sea air. Finally he had arrived. The loud exhaust of the dilapidated truck deflected and echoed against the stone arch. Turning off the ignition, the engine sputtered on, ending with a small backfire. Not being of similar pedigree, it was obnoxious incidents and sounds like this,in her world would be deemed uncouth but made him all the more interesting. 

He sat in the driver’s seat looking at Joelle with a crooked grin. His thin lips quickly pulled back to a display a toothy smile. He reached with his right hand to the outside handle, unlatched his door and stepped out. She had been waiting two long years for his return. Now he was only feet away and it was if she were standing in clay unable to move. He moved towards her, seeing her shiver, removed his woollen dress uniform coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. With his right hand he lowered the tailgate. They sat down looking off into the ocean as they had so years before. He held her close saying, “I told you I’d be back”. She didn’t say a word but took a long deep breath as if to breathe him in. As the wind picked up, his pinned up left sleeve flapped in the breeze reminding him of what he had left on the battlefield. “I told you I’d be back”, he whispered. 

Written for Sue Vincent’s Photo Stones #writephoto Thank you Sue:) 

Dedicated to all those who served and those that gave those men and women, hope, love and understanding. Amen. 

Corporal Roy USMC 1981

#writephoto Left for Dead By Raymond Roy: #writephoto Fiction

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt  #writephoto
Left for Dead

Body aching, covered in dirt, like I had died, was buried, dug back up then ran over me with a truck.

Trying to get my bearings I look across the Idaho landscape, not a soul in site with the exception of a tractor pulling a trailer in the distance.

A brisk breeze loosens some of the dirt packed in my oversized ears.

What the hell happened? Reminiscent of what Mum used to say, “your ears are so dirty you could grow potatoes in there”, Surprised none got in my mouth.

Getting to my feet I brush my white gloves off put on my black hat, and look down to see my still surprisingly clean starched blue trousers are none the worse for wear. I start making my way down the wheel worn grass trail.

As the sun begins to set, the tractor draws closer with flood lights on. I wave to them I think they see me.

Thank God, for help.

Every step is agony

I try to scream out but I can’t seem to open my mouth.

They see me!

It’s a farmer and his son. The boy comes toward me. Closer and closer I want to scream out but I can’t !

The father yells to the boy, “who is it son?”,,

Dad its,…. its …

Mr. Potato head?

The River’s Secret by Raymond Roy #writephoto

“Si Señor Martin, everything is prepared for your great adventure en la mañana”,

“Gracias Arturo”, “Buenos Noches and Good Night. ”

The Rio Secreto (Secret River) Adventures in the Yucatán peninsula. Spelunking on our honeymoon with my beautiful bride, Jenny. How could I be so lucky ?

The rising Mexico Sun was like a red tipped sea urchin, every blink elongated a piercing spike into your cornea.

Sitting in the back of the open Jeep, the sun was eclipsed periodically by the bouncing of our guide, Arturo’s body as he struggled to steady himself while we trekked over rough terrain.

Being a special honeymoon package, the resort had packed a picnic basket that was at our feet. I saw goosebumps form on Jenny’s fair skinned arms from the dewy cool desert air. Looking into her eyes, I envisioned a great life with the woman of my dreams. Jenny’s contented smile made my heart race.

The trailing rooster tail dust plume following us, caught up and drizzled “desert chalk” as we arrived at the cave entrance. “We are Here Señor Martin.”.

“Honey look at this place, its paradise”. Jenny was beaming. I just loved this woman. “Martin dear, let me get the camera out.. ”

Arturo jumped in,” That won’t be needed my Friends” .

Suddenly, his warm cheeky smile transformed to an ashen pock marked frown. Pulling from under the drivers seat, the blueing on the muzzle of the .357 Ruger, spoke volumes of their once amicable guide’s facial metamorphosis.

Keeping full eye contact he reached under the linen cloth in the picnic basket, pulled out an apple, and with a loud crunch sank in his teeth. With juice running down the side of his face.”Por Favor, I am going to need you to strip down to your underwear”directing with the gun” and leave all your belongings in the Jeep!

Written for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Thanks for hosting Sue!
#writephoto