Photograph by Lynda Lehmann
visit Lynda's website to see more of her
photography and art - lyndalehmann.com
and she is a part of - World Wide Women Artists
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Suggested prompt...
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visit Lynda's website to see more of her
photography and art - lyndalehmann.com
and she is a part of - World Wide Women Artists
~
Suggested prompt...
~
Reflections
use it creatively in your writing today.
___________________________
The shame was gnawing away at him, like a starving parasite gorging on his secret. Unable to face them any longer, he fled from those prying eyes; the ones that judged and tormented him. He had willingly followed the song of the river that called to him, chanting promises of peace and forgiveness.
At the water’s edge, he fell to his knees, begging an unseen deity to show mercy. The only response was the whisper of the river inviting him, crooning his name. The water rippled gently like beckoning hands, pulling him forward. He gradually rose to his feet and, with hesitant steps, slowly waded into the water, each one taking him deeper into the murky channel.
The feathery touch against his legs did not surprise him. He was expecting it, knew they were there to welcome him. The pressure increased, wrapping firmly around his ankles, moving quickly up his legs. His heart began to race, playing a rapid, deafening rhythm against his chest. He told himself this was necessary and deserved, that punishment must be meted out. Then suddenly, without warning, he was pulled beneath the surface where his arms and legs were forcefully held. The black water was suffocating, crushing him, stealing every last breath from his lungs, until there was nothing but mist.
On the shore, the young ones gazed coldly at the water, watched the last ripples fade away.
Monica Manning
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13 comments:
reflections unclear
the surface moves constantly
like my perception
Colliding Colors of the Calliope conflict brilliantly, reflecting in the ancient town square fountain, as the circus wagons roll into town, creating commotion consumately.
The house...or I should say...the shed is no longer there. Gave into nature years ago. Melon's (that was what we all called him because of his "big" head)funeral brought us all back together again...revisiting the places and people that helped shape our lives at a time when were so vulnerable. We were a rebellious cadre of kids wanting to be men...but so much yet to learn.
The cabin stood on the banks of the Wabash and it was our meeting place...on Melon's family farm just outside of town. On weekends the beer would flow, our friends would filter in and out and many nights were spent not inside the walls but out under the stars. It was a respite from the drab gray walls of the college dorms.
Strange how things happen in waves. After graduation, we all split getting back together for marriages one by one until we all were accounted for...then the baby showers ticked off for a few years, followed by the divorces.
Just as any family split by a divorce...after that wave...our yearly contacts faded.
Last Tuesday, I received the letter...handwritten in this age of Twitter and text messaging. I knew what it said before I opened it...the next wave has begun.
Melon is gone. So is the cabin. Yet as I stood on the bank with the few friends left from those days, Hawk with that still sandpaper voice reluctantly said "Look...look at the reflection...it is still there!" There was no reflection but to each of us...our minds so caught up in details of the past...we saw it also. Faded and memories now unsure of the details...it was the reflection of the cabin where we all began so many years ago.
We all came together during the days of Woodstock, the war protests, soul music, bell bottoms, head shops, mid term finals and streaking frenzies...during weddings, babies and divorces...and now reunited one more time before it is too late.
REFLECTIONS
Reflections of my past flow freely through my mind
Happy childhood, miserable teenhood, skittish adulthood
All jumbled together in the melting pot of memories
Never really showing my past by outward means, but simmering slowly in my thoughts and dreams
Rippled memories like the ripple of waves
Skipping across the decades of time
Not unlike a skimming stone as it lights on spontaneous musings and perceptions
With no control over where the cognition begins and the flights of fancy end
Why is it older brains will always reflect the past
While newer brains are only interested in jetting to the future
Don't they know that time is fleeting and you should not wish it away
'Cause in the blink of an eye, the future is gone and all we're left with is the past
Look up!
A kaleidoscope of broken colors,
the pond reflects the not-to-distant shore.
Awestruck by this mirage,
I almost miss the glory
I behold when I lift my gaze
to the actual beach.
Fickle reflections attempt to
mesmerize me from seeing what's real.
But I've learned only to well,
reflections are not reality.
Quick glance reveals
a reflection that startles.
My mind relies on an image
that keeps me steady.
My eyes may dart away,
reflection glimmers on.
Awake to see a painful truth
reflecting back at me.
I look in the mirror,
I see a reflection.
I am still she.
I am still the one in the mirror.
I am still she
Who looks back
at me.
Sometimes I forget what she looks like. Because it really doesn't matter.
I go about my day, doing everything I need to. Taking care of my children. Taking care of my house. Sometimes I can go a full day without even making eye contact with her.
Then when I do, it's like a reminder. Sometimes it can even be a slap in the face. It's like she is screaming to me "PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'M IMPORTANT TOO!" and I decide to take a moment with just her. She gets put on the back burner too often.
Sometimes I forget what she looks like. I haven't memorized the curves of her face. I don't know exactly how many freckles she has, or how many gray hairs she has. I just know the obvious details and the picture in my memory.
Then when I see her it hits me again that she's aged a little more. It hits me again that she has weathered a few storms. She's important too. She needs my attention now and then.
So I close the door to my bathroom and give her that time.
My reflection.
The shame was gnawing away at him, like a starving parasite gorging on his secret. Unable to face them any longer, he fled from those prying eyes; the ones that judged and tormented him. He had willingly followed the song of the river that called to him, chanting promises of peace and forgiveness.
At the water’s edge, he fell to his knees, begging an unseen deity to show mercy. The only response was the whisper of the river inviting him, crooning his name. The water rippled gently like beckoning hands, pulling him forward. He gradually rose to his feet and, with hesitant steps, slowly waded into the water, each one taking him deeper into the murky channel.
The feathery touch against his legs did not surprise him. He was expecting it, knew they were there to welcome him. The pressure increased, wrapping firmly around his ankles, moving quickly up his legs. His heart began to race, playing a rapid, deafening rhythm against his chest. He told himself this was necessary and deserved, that punishment must be meted out. Then suddenly, without warning, he was pulled beneath the surface where his arms and legs were forcefully held. The black water was suffocating, crushing him, stealing every last breath from his lungs, until there was nothing but mist.
On the shore, the young ones gazed coldly at the water, watched the last ripples fade away.
Conjoined with simply being, no longer am I
harvesting secrets behind my eyes
as rain stains crystallized tears and
now is the moment to rift free from
civility as it withers in the basin of idle musings
existentially diffusing what is left of me, as I
search my reflective dance for another chance~
© 2009 S. Anderson, all rights reserved.
Swirling colors
Mixed emotions
Blending shapes
Confusing notions
Like Alice through the looking glass, the distortions confuse.
What is real? What is false?
Even the colours - which are true?
Which are generated by the distortion?
How are we to know?
Do we need to know?
Accept the shattered beauty at face value.
Appreciate the newness of what you see.
Monet's eyesight problems generated the art we still value today - who knows what reflections are mirroring?
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