A Musing Tale For Two, Three & Seven | Short Story

As the smoke swirled, Seven pushed at her temple to dull the pain and reel in relief at the realization that she’d not only survived, she’d pulverized him. Them. She’d denied them her extinquishment by the Demon disguised as Sisyphus in noble despair and his allies. Seven had once been an ally too, one of many that learned too late, that his pleas for protection are from his own orchestrations.

One after another, they’d placed their feet over the steps of the previous muse, believing they’d obliterated his disconsolate past. They were his healers, celestially heralded of course, and each proclaimed as the most extraordinary. Each an intricate weaving of beauty & grace until every strand of that understanding was pulled, crushed and tossed. The quintessential death by a 1000 cuts; slash by tiny slash, they were to be broken down and bled …for his pleasure.

Only one remained, number Three. It still believed in the script; It was the most inclined because It was trained to be. It was raised with the sensibility of a good and loyal and refined Republican, where desire for approval is ingrained and longing to be seen burns deep. Keeping them hungry is the most effective Republican control and Three was the hungriest. Three yearned for the rewards of applying oneself – praise, praise, and praise be to those who praise. It took only a moment to affect humility when fed a fresh, crispy glory morsel.

Three was most like him – claiming to be a gentle soul fighting evil, especially for women, even while triumphantly clinking wineglasses with him, partner in joy & melancholy, this limited modern Aristotle/Martin Luther combo. They’d bonded over their number one tenet: Don’t tell me what I can’t do. These sort are also rarely accustomed to admitting error. Oh, how the Demon appreciated how easy Three made Itself for molding.

Seven saw Three now alone on the field – she watched for a while as It scrambled for attention, begging for more and more approval and admiration. She smirked at all of Its contortionist squirming to meet real daring, to be regarded as genuine badassery while still being the picture of educated refinement. Seven watched as It continued to vie for the top of a heap that never really existed.

Seven was reminded of it all, while comforted within the safety of Michael’s wings and sword. She knew the inevitable ending and although Three’s arrogance made the thought of Its own unwinding amusing, she knew even a conceited Three was also a victim. Still, she also knew even if Three was warned with a literal Demon mind-reading presentation, Three wouldn’t budge from Its self-coveted title of latest ‘number one compassionate soul’.

Three would never admit that It never actually saw a real tear from the Demon, nor that his every manipulation always pulled Three back from any logic, always replaced with emotional diversion. No, It’s too smart to fall for that, after all he’d acknowledged Its many karats of perfection over and over. He’d heroically shored up Its inner warrior: “Join the rebellion, show some skin, say the word fuck out loud in public more”. Ooo, such a trouper, that Three be.

Three would learn that Its own ‘growth’ was only about being exposed for what It really was all along. Every word, every photo, every plea for following… It’s a tricky world alright, but especially for a muse willfully blinding Itself for the win.  All the Numbers reveled in the knowledge that smugness too, is a temporary state.

Despite the humiliation, the Demon constantly reaches for her, but Seven, like the others was already in a place untouchable by his lowliness. The nightmare of shallow Demons & their Fems is temporary hellfire for most.

As Michael ascended, Seven became aware of the Demon’s lock of hair still caught in her fingers. She unwound it and held it over one of the fires. She smiled as the flames lifted and seized it, and the battle pains eased as the field of charred red and its last inhabitants faded from sight.

RL

The Phoenix Seeks

One was too saintly, the other mystifyingly, overly wanton
but, the muse that had once stood in front of him,
caused him the great distress of having to choose between them.
He couldn’t have loathed her more for that.
She was the appointed trajectory change, The Annointed,
ready to absorb all pain,
swallowing every shot of poison he threw on her.
His game changer.
She’d fulfilled her divine role, took it all, and then she cried & cursed, screamed & writhed until her strength of purpose coiled it all up and she hurled it to the Universe-
trusting its claim to render the collection into harmless stardust.
And then she burned him….
She left him
She left…
The deepest of profane-worthy infractions: the disease of desertion, the unholy crime of abandonment. That’s why he set his world on fire…
She left.
Him.
If he’d really wanted the Saint, he’d have got ordained and lived on his knees. He’d have played at prayerful loving until he could run for privacy to vomit out the inevitable gut-full of banal-blended depression.
If he’d really wanted Devil Baby, he’d have dug into the part of ratbag with a heart of gold for much longer than 190 days of tortuous – love to love & hate you, Baby Girl.
He hungers for the one who wasn’t a saint, but had an army of them for back-up…. that one just near enough to demons to be inspired without getting sucked into their seediness.
He’d forgot the bargain to hold muses indefinitely; ignored it entirely.
Unsuitable for the narrative of his design, and yet…
He poured gasoline all over his world to regain that searing desire and relief that only she’d ever drawn from him.
He imagined himself a Phoenix, but he’ll never leave the flames. He will never know the cooling of the ashes as they heal and repair. He will never rise anew.
He burns… forever,
but not nearly so much as for
more of her.

RL

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/saintly/

Killer Words 2

Mighty Pen2

The best weaponry
To slay thy enemies well
Ubiquitous BICs

RL

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/paragon/
#Haiku, #Micropoetry #powerofthewrittenword
Image craft by RL

Amusements

toying with kittens

Toying with kittens
Child’s play, like taking candy
Fear not wee scratches

Little ones playing at big
Amusements of life growing

RL

Haiku / Tanka
Writing challenge: Chuckle
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/chuckle/
Photo: Zawadi Mungu, lion dad at Oregon Zoo, Portland

First Thought

morning bliss I am the first thought
On his mind as daybreak blinks
Sunday morning bliss…

 Gently smudging pain’s traces
Sweetly replacing wishes

RL

Haiku / Tanka
Inspired by the artwork of: aaronpaquette.net and prompted by: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/heal/

Shut Up; Inspiration’s Tapping

Road blocks, creativity blocks, block heads…It’s a mindbender how often we stumble into the crevices of mental-logjam hell. Where you can’t get past step: what the hell is wrong with me? We’ve all encountered it and I have a theory about why. I think it’s a kind of, forgot who we are blockage.

I don’t mean traumatic amnesia or movement away from some great metaphysical understanding, not that those couldn’t be the issue. I mean by forgetting the simplest of our own self-connection, barring an osis attached to our psyches. I’m sure this isn’t new thought, but I landed on it while catching a breather.

I’ve had a few years of weaving around so many traumas that at times, I wasn’t sure I was still in the realm of general reality. It was hard work to get through that and one of my key coping tools was writing. I wrote out everything. I put it into journals, onto my blog, worked it into comments for online stories, into letters to friends. I wrote as though I was being chased by some spade-tailed catastrophic, disaster-delivering satan ready to fork me the minute I put my pen down.

Clearly, I wasn’t suffering from any blockage throughout all that. But – it was within this flurry of activity that I realized something. So much of what I was writing really didn’t have to do with the actual events that had occurred as much as what they activated in the storage room of my life.

One single lived moment can trigger a cascading torrent of imagination. A few incredible moments that shake us up to levels unknown can offer years of material. They needn’t have been traumatic, just the kind that opens up something, a doorway to that kaleidoscopic onion of infinite colors that is our subconscious.

We’ve all had them, these events, but we can’t really know how they will affect us when they occur. Sometimes, despite even our best efforts to forget them, memory will continue to haunt as though a living character in some perverse corner of the universe stuck on auto-replay. Relentless input, a consciousness stalker and its flying monkeys.

As a writer, any of these flashy inspirations can initiate a series of songs, poems, stories, or a simple chronicle of the event detailing what, why and how we were affected. They can induce flow for anyone – a photographer hits on a fantastic series of scenes to shoot. A politician may find that ideal answer to policy, the cure for cancer will attach to a researcher, the anybody who may unlock a talent long ignored, maybe bogged in banal duty or years of focused yakking about exes or bad bosses.

Conversely, there is another inspiration reality that’s just as effective, but seems to be less courted. Remember Newton, relativity, equal action/reaction? As much as huge events of any type can inspire, so can a simple minute of letting go and shutting up.

I suppose I’ve been learning that we really don’t have to search for inspiration; not when there are literally thousands of moments already in storage ready for excavating. Every one of our memories are multi-faceted jewels and each face has absorbed a song, a smell, a sound, a texture. Each is available and waiting. The only key to their door is closing the gate to absolutely everything else for a matter of mere minutes.

It’s a bit of practice initially, just letting thoughts float around, then up, then away… and wait. There will be no sudden heraldic choir announcement that it’s time to get your ass to the grindstone & forge the greatest creation ever. At least not typically, but if we wait a few minutes, the creation is there, ready. It will seep out timidly or flood our receptors, but either way, we’ll have achieved a nice BM, as in blockage movement. Yes, just as satisfying as any other.

Bottom line: rest is a requirement of the creative process, not a death sentence. So, shut up and let your muses get through to you. Or so they tell me… Mine mince no words. Ever.

RL

The Wins of Futility

[Short story – theme: conquer]

He enjoyed the idea that he was tormenting her while he dangled his presence around her, but the facades of his intent were very poor disguise, rather sophomoric and predictable. The fitting of his mask rendered him completely unaware that it was she, who was leading him by the nose.

So, there was little intrigue to hold her gaze. The offering was thin, weak even… the fact that she’d seen it for what it was and rejected it, in the end, was genuinely puzzling to him.

It drove him to play cat, but without the appearance of pawing at the mouse. He left that to the kittens he’d made believe were his fighting defense of immense ability.

The worst of it… that part that whirled his twisted out vision was that it didn’t look like she’d made any changes in her life that completely sealed out room for him, and that – that was the most incomprehensible.

So, he continues to prowl around corners and spy, hoping to provoke a second look, but it never comes. Not the way he craves. It will never be returned, and he will labor in that eternal circular chase for as long as that emptiness and his meowing backup guide him.

She remains true to her purpose, employing her memories and inspirations without ever having to touch the reins he casts toward her. She shoos away his gnat-like fly-bys, exercising her right to indifference. This is her freedom, and his own imprisonment.

RL

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/conquer/