Splintered Memories of Fragments in Time

This one's a little different from my usual spoken word pieces or monologues.
When I wrote it, I knew I needed to record it—
because reading it doesn’t carry the same weight as saying it out loud.

I call this a vignette.
Or maybe just snapshots of memory—fragmented moments.
Separate events that loop back on themselves,
blurring together as though they were one.

They loop, they collide, they bleed into each other—
until you’re not sure what happened when,
only that it did.

These are small, fractured pieces
of a much greater story—
but one that’s best told in splinters.

Splintered Memories of Fragments in Time.

Cracked egg shell
Cousin injured
Splintered palm root, lodged in flesh
where he fell.

Blood
Pain
Screaming
A young boy screaming
I stood motionless at the the top of the hill.

Soaked clothes
Wet singlet
Wet dress
Sobbing
A wretched grrl
Filled with fear
The consequence of such a mess
The thought she could hardly bear.

The crack of splintering wood
Against tiny legs
And tiny hands
That grabbed at her dress
To stop
To ache
To cry and plead
Left on the edge of the bath to bleed.

A missing jigsaw piece
A brothers tantrum
The puzzle incomplete
I swear it wasn’t me
It was tangled in the bed sheet.

Sent to bed
Without any food
Until I admitted the lie that was untrue
My grumbling tummy
Made me confess
Against a truth that became a lie
And still no food,
But experience taught me, I wouldn’t die.

A smash,
A crash of heads colliding with great force
Blood everywhere
On hands
And face
Screaming and screaming
Said, I was a disgrace.

A needle with a fat syringe
Plunged into my brow bone
Screaming
And screaming
Who was screaming?
The stitches weaved, all black and knotted
Waking up with an eye that looked as though it had rotted.

The car,
The suitcases,
The smiles on all our faces,
Two in the back
And two in the front
But wait…Dad,
You left her behind,
She’s chasing the car
As he shifts through gears in a desperate grind.

We crawl up against the back window
And cry,
Yet, she does not remain still
As panic riddles her with sorrow
The car suddenly is in reverse
Backing toward her
She flees so she can see tomorrow.

And the silence ticks
Tick
Tick
Tick
And we don’t know what comes next
Until it does.

Written, composed, and performed by © Samira Wyld 2025
A Wyld and Untamed Production 2025

If you’d like to support my work, you can donate… or just buy me a coffee. 💋