The Haunted Wordsmith’s prompt is to pick up the nearest book and turn to page 62, line 6 and use that line in a story. The book I picked up was Veils, Halos and Shackles and this is the line: “. . . .each night passing through a boundary.”
The Good Wife
Each night passing through a boundary, every morning coming home. Pinned to the day’s agenda with no free time for her to roam the streets of her imagination, gathering images she’d share in all the stories she would write if she had the time and nerve to dare. What would they think if they knew where she journeyed during dreaming time? Would the other wives revile her or tell their husband of her crime?
The lush banks of imagination where she went barefoot and unveiled and did the things that in the real world would cause her to be shunned or jailed were her reward for time in harness, being that person they expected. Veiled and cloistered and obedient. Qualities they all respected. But in her dreams she lived the wild world—unfettered, uncensored and free. It was the only place in her life that she labeled herself “me.”
In that world that wasn’t her world—that place where she was forced to be— She existed as observer, watching a self she labeled “she.” She kept her true self safely hidden. Kept her opinions to herself. All her precious thoughts and talents neatly stacked upon the shelf waiting for her nightly visits when she could take them down and play until the early morning sunlight drew her, regrettably, to day.
Galaxies spin out of sight
far out in this selfsame night
where I attempt to journey in
to universes within my skin.
Whole worlds inside that I can’t know.
I feel sometimes they guide me, though.
How else explain my need to range
into environments more strange.
Like many, thinking I’m unique
when many others who also seek
share a larger journey all,
trapped together on this ball
that spins our world through time and space
taking us all to the same place!
The sun has burned the day away
and set the sea on fire
turning a glowing pathway
into a funeral pyre.
She, too, has left her day behind,
shed like a soiled dress.
What tomorrow holds for her
She has no need to guess.
Dark Against Light
The universe’s fine maquette is light on dark and dry on wet— her quietness and stillness set against the thrum of castanet. It is a sort of etiquette: opposite versus opposite. Victory gauged against regret. Sunrise followed by sunset. Every lottery and bet boundless riches as well as debt. It does no good to fuss and fret. This irony is all we get— nature one pure brightness set as backdrop to our silhouette.
Want more views of this sunset? Go HERE.
The prompt today is one of the prettiest words in the English language: silhouette.
I’m lying awake when I should be snoring, but falling asleep is simply too boring. Lying here quiet with nothing to do with nothing to listen to, nothing to view just makes me restless, unable to snooze. I need some amusement, a snifter of booze— something to make me forget to recall that falling asleep’s not the end of it all. I cannot help but resent this time wasted when things could be written or looked at or tasted instead of just lying inert in my bed with my eyes shut but images filling my head that tend to confuse and to fill and encumber this time that good sense says should be spent in slumber.