Do you like to experiment with your writing? Allow yourself to write ‘freely’ and see what happens? Sometimes I just want to be different and strange and if the shoe fits, weird. I grew up loving Aesop’s Fables. In my attempt to pay homage to those little moral tidbits, I allowed myself to write a fable of contrived moral strife from a contrived book of fables with ensuing lesson. The following is the result…
(Excerpt from an unpublished, unknown, fictitious book called “Fables of Folly”)
Slithering in the grass, quiet and unnoticed, eager to find the prey you hunger for – There, just across the way, she is as ripened fruit dangling from a low-hanging branch. You admire her, look her over – ah, she is blemished, weakened by some undetermined nature; even better you decide. Damaged prey is easy prey. Your senses tell you the time to strike is nigh – your movements are calculating, precise and unstoppable. You begin to consume her without thought, devouring the beauty before you, but you underestimated her. She was stronger than you had believed. Her body was soft but her spirit was fierce. Unable to defeat her and worse yet, let her go, you both succumb.
Moral: A dark heart of desire may be one’s own ruin.
Do tell – do you allow yourself to free write anything or do you strictly adhere to working on a piece your committed to, one project at a time? What are your thoughts on slithering snakes? How about morality? Anything you’d like to share, I’ll happily devour…
(Image courtesy of Microsoft Clipart)
She felt the echo before she heard it. Perhaps she didn’t feel the echo at all. Perhaps she was jarred from hearing the sound for the first time and it deceived her senses. How does one feel an echo after all?
The sky was polluted with what appeared to be giant heavy gray snowflakes, layering every surface they discovered. Burning streams of fire laced the mountainside. She felt these burning streams course through the marrow of her bones before, when he told her he loved her, when their skin touched in all its naked glory, and when he said goodbye.
Bitterness was the anchoring tree trunk she clung to, as she watched others swept away by ensuing storms. She wasn’t sure why she held to anything at all when she could have so easily let go to join the flood of the mangled, the broken; swallowed by the muddy earth.
The aftermath had a stench, with putrid threads that wove the unconnected and uncomfortable into a carpet of crushed bone and branch, land and life, on which to rest a while and thrive again. Her bare feet were pricked with the layers of debris he left behind for her to walk upon. Her lips were scorched by the heat of his nearly-forgotten kiss. Her heart? There was nothing of it left to salvage.
She waited by the side of the road for rescue, weakness proving to be her only strength. She’d survived – so what.
Image courtesy of Microsoft Office ClipArt
(Just having a little fun with words tonight – I hope you enjoy it… )
Male poets and their muses,
The male novelist is implicated, as well
Whisperers of tantalizing inspiration
Do they touch your pen, pray tell…
Do they have hair of gold?
Lips of truest shade?
Do they model perfection
In every single way?
The female writer of words
Can surely join in the fun
What sort of muse should inspire
A woman’s creative flame to burn?
Will he be built as an Adonis
Listening to her every sigh
A lover only in her mind or
Real flesh to cling to at night?
It shall be scandalous, risque in truest form
She’ll be one of ‘those women’
But won’t she have such fun…