Coming home

I returned a Monday in September; ten days before the autumn equinox. Dusk had started to stretch its hands through our silent forest.

A few exhausted leaves rolled leisurely across the porch.

The house was resting; waiting; it was staring back at me, windows blank and vacant.

I was numb, lacking answers as my father wasn’t drunk and as my mother’s bruises was uncovered.

My rage subsiding in my war with windmills.

I opened the door to the hurried footsteps from scavenging rodents; shivering, caressed by spiderwebs.

The stagnant air still reeked from my mother’s rancid pork.

I remembered finding my mother dead; my father drunk, asleep, on the floor his axe I later used — on him

I remembered claiming self-defense; I remembered prison-food.

These memories were left here with the trees: the fears I left were now exhumed.

I had come to stay.

Time for prosery at dVerse. 144 word of prose including the phrase “These memories were left here with the trees” from “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War.” by Jo Harjo. Merril hosts.

September 16, 2019

33 responses to “Coming home

  1. Strong tale, told boldly. It incorporates the chosen line perfectly. Your dive into darkness is indeed chilling.

  2. As 10cc sang, “The things we do for love.” Hoping he’s not haunted in the night by one or both of them. My story was similar, but with the prompt line it isn’t surprising that it would be.

  3. As I read your piece, I had the song by Ozzie Osborne in my had, ‘Mama I’m coming home’. This is so powerful, Björn, and very Scandi-noir – up there with my favourites. I like the dusk starting ‘to stretch its hands through our silent forest’, those few exhausted leaves rolling across the porch, and the ‘war with windmills’.

  4. Excellent writing Björn ! Good use of the proffered line. I enjoyed reading this, dark though as it was..

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