Direction

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose

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Direction

"Are you lost, little one?"

"I feel like I am."

"You haven't lost your way, in as much as you simply haven't read the map."

"The directions are confusing. I don't understand them."

"Perhaps you would be better served to focus on the scenery, rather than the map."

"I did that, but now I'm afraid I took a wrong turn."

"There is no wrong turn."

"Are you sure?"

"Have you not seen that which you would have otherwise ignored?"

"I have seen love and hope."

"And have you learned nothing?"

"I have learned to trust and forgive."

"Then you are on the right path."

"Will you guide me when it's dark?"

"Always. And I will light a candle so you will find your way Home."

Just a Weed

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose

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Just a Weed

When I was but a wee young thing—
no more than five or six—
to mother I would often bring
a bouquet that I’d picked.

I offered weeds with heads all bent;
a wide smile on my face.
She always knew how much it meant,
and placed them in a vase.

Now she’s gone and every day
I pray that I’ll be brave.
And every week I stop to lay
dandelions on her grave.


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edit:

let me say that this is a work of fiction ...
i am lucky to say i still have my mom

Metamorphosis

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose

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Metamorphosis

Before,
I was nobody.
Never noticed, never remembered.
Easily forgotten.
Often shrugged aside.

After,
I was beautiful.
Everyone wanted to know me.
Wanted a piece of me.
I was never left alone.

Then,
I knew myself.
When I was loved, it was real.
Friendship was true.
Truth was pure.

Now,
I am lost.
Nothing is real anymore.
Friends only want to share the light.
I know nothing but lies.

I want what I was before,
not what they made me after.
Take me back to then—
I don’t want it now.

The Last Supper

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose

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The Last Supper

He sat alone at the table, his calloused hands folded in his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine meal. Perhaps never.

Footsteps echoed off the walls and he sat up straighter, fidgeted a bit. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses, wanting to savour this moment, burn the memory in his mind.

The smell assaulted him first. His mouth watered in Pavlovian reflex and he swallowed thickly, greedily licking his chapped lips. Aroma wrapped around him, caressed him like a familiar lover who promised to fulfill every perverted desire. The plate gently touched the table before him and he waited until the footsteps faded away.

Alone again, though he knew he was watched, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the feast before him: an enormous piece of prime rib—rare—garnished with a large dollop of strong horse radish. Arranged around it in homage to the succulent meat were parisienne potatoes, crisp asparagus and fried mushrooms.

He slowly cut into the tender meat then placed a small sliver on his tongue, relished the juices as they filled his mouth. The small morsel all but melted. The crisp outer shell of the potatoes housed a tender white interior. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted when he split them open. The asparagus, steamed to perfection, lay in a pool of melted butter next to over-sized seasoned portabellas.

His contented sighs punctuated the silence as he steadily ate through the meal, laying down his utensils after each mouthful, delaying the end as long as possible.

Crème brullée was the final indulgence. He tapped the crust gently, watched as the fault undulated across the golden scab, exposing the vulnerable richness beneath. Each spoonful was sheer joy.

The utensils now lay across the empty plate, meticulously lined up. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin and gently lay it atop the china. His eyes closed briefly as he sent silent thanks to the god he was convinced had long since turned away. He would remember that banquet as long as he lived.

He smirked as, once again, the footsteps approached, confirmation that he was watched. How else would they know he was done?

“Ready?” The question was asked, as though he had a choice. He merely nodded in reply, rose awkwardly and shuffled towards the door. With one final glance at the barren room, he followed the uniformed fellow out the door.

As he hobbled down the long corridor, the chains around his ankles clinked ominously, barely heard above the bellowed “Dead man walking!”

Petals of Fate

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry and Prose

Prompt: Write a poem of no more than five-lines


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Petals of Fate

Innocent little petals,
plucked one by one
in search of the eternal answer,
shatter dreams when they reply:
He loves me not.

Tire Swing

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose


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Tire Swing

From the moment he hung it, she swung daily on the tire swing, her laughter echoing throughout the garden, drifting up into the windows, wrapping him in its warmth. Oh, how he had loved to hear her voice ringing with merriment as she swayed freely on that old wheel.

Now, only the echo remains, clinging desperately to the flowers, not quite reaching him in his den where he hides day after day, drowning in his loss; the grief of losing her, virtually suffocating him.

Until today. Today he heard laughter. Entranced, he wandered over to the window and gazed down onto the estate. He watched, mesmerized, as the old swing began to sway. He could hear laughter—her laughter—wandering up to him, luring him.

“Come and play, Daddy!” he heard her cry, his heart leaping with joy. He had been waiting so long to hear her voice again; waiting for her to call him to join her. There was no hesitation in his step as he leapt from the window, eager to unite with his daughter once again.

The Little Fuchsia Bear

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose


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The Little Fuchsia Bear

He remembered the first day as though time had not passed. The grown-ups held him by his waist, swung him to and fro, while the child gazed at him in wonder, giggled with delight. Her small, pudgy hands squeezed and held him tight, while strong gums gnawed and sucked his left ear until it was mangled beyond recognition.

In the early years, he attended lavish tea parties and marched in extravagant parades; always wearing the gaudy orange hat and the pink feather boa. Evenings, he was held close in peaceful slumber; though he often woke on the floor, furred limbs splayed, as if he'd spent the evening on a wild bender.

In time, his seniority made him privy to classified information; debriefed at length on what was said at recess, to whom and how, with detailed dossiers on those who didn't play well with others.

Much later, he spent hours listening to the tortured lament of teenage love, offered the kind of comfort only a hug can provide. Most recently, his time was filled with endless days of solitude, lying prone on the flowered bedspread.

Now, propped against the bed pillows, listing somewhat to the left, he watched her pack the few possessions she would take with her to university. He felt deflated and empty, as though the very stuffing that gave him life was wrenched from his fuchsia body and he was nothing but a dishevelled casing. He contemplated his dismal future; boxed and sent to a charity where he would lay with other abandoned stuffies, bewailing better times. They would all recall how their owners loved them, boast of their play dates, each tale more embellished than the last.

And in the dark hours, when the lights were asleep and he was not, he would miss how she’d wrap her arm around him and hug him close while she dreamt.

She placed the last box beside him on the bed, thrust her hands into the pockets of her worn jeans and scanned her bedroom. A wistful expression flickered across her face and it tore at his stuffed heart. With a heavy sigh, she picked up the box, tucked it under her arm and scooped up the worn bear in a one-armed hug.

"You have to come with me," she mumbled into his fur. "It just won’t be the same without you."

With that the little fuchsia bear left the room, swinging upside down, one leg held in a firm grip, arms thrown wide in delight.

Which to Wear

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose


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Which to Wear

Wandering into the luxurious bathroom, Jacqueline avoided the mirror’s reflection that held little resemblance to the vibrant woman she once was. Hair that danced in flirtatious curls around her shoulders, now hung lifeless down her back. She understood, now, why Evan insisted she keep it long.

She fought to control her trembling hands as she applied makeup with meticulous care. Despite her diligence, she knew he would find fault. He always did.

The backless, red silk dress hung in her walk-in closet, replaced now with the gown laid out on the king-sized bed. The black, sequined dress would better camouflage the signs of his most recent discipline.

Evan entered the room, his footsteps muffled on the plush carpet, and placed his hands on her shoulders. It was an act of possession, rather than affection. She doubted he was capable of the latter. Jacqueline suppressed a shudder when he bent down to kiss her neck.

“We will have a wonderful evening,” he murmured. His voice hardened as his hand bit into her shoulder. “Provided, of course, you behave.”

His warning hung in the room like a heavy fog, leaving her breathless and frightened. When he left, she met her gaze in the mirror, questioned the pale blue eyes that stared back.

Had she made the right decision?

Jacqueline closed the ivory compact, put it back in its designated place inside the vanity drawer. After a quick glance in the mirror, she pushed aside the ceramic box that held her shadows and fingered the antique sheering scissors hidden beneath.

Her eyes darted back to the mirror. She didn’t see the straw-coloured hair that hung below her shoulders. Instead, she saw a walnut bob that hung in a classic cut just below her chin.

Yes, she thought, when she left tomorrow, she would wear a new face.

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Note: This piece was edited on February 22, 2011. The original version can be read by following the muse link above.

Reflections

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose


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Reflections

Like a starving parasite, the shame gnawed away at him, gorged on his secret. No longer able to face those prying eyes—the ones that judged and tormented him—he followed the river’s song, melodious notes that promised peace and forgiveness.

Especially forgiveness.

At the water’s edge, he fell to his knees and begged an unknown deity to show mercy. The only response was the river crooning his name. Gentle ripples beckoned, pulled him forward. In a trance, he rose to his feet and waded into the water, each hesitant step taking him deeper into the murky channel.

He was not surprised by the feathery touch against his leg. He knew they were there, waiting for him.

The pressure increased, wrapped around his ankles, moved with lightening speed up his legs. This was deserved, he told himself, fighting the urge to bolt. God help him if his punishment was equal to that which he once delivered with such delight.

Without warning, he was snatched beneath the surface, arms and legs bound. His body bucked as he fought for oxygen. Water plumed from the river in great crests as he thrashed against the invisible bindings. The black water suffocated, crushed him, stole every last breath from his lungs, until there was nothing but mist.

On the shore, the children stood unmoved and watched as the last ripple faded away with their stolen innocence.