Ashes are all that remain of the flame.
Flames of passion, once a fuel, pushing forth, pushing onwards.
Ashes are scattered, broken dreams are scattered, mind is scattered.
Fractured reflections glare forth, fractures of confidence, fractures of purpose, fractures mended once before.
Darkness beckons, coaxing, begging, pleading, yelling, demanding.
The absence of flame, the inevitable, the fall.
Although she could look to the horizon and see the protective hills of her childhood, the yearning did not ease. Fifteen years of absence, spent in denial and indifference, reversed with a smile from an unexpected source. The ill feelings towards those that had forgotten her suddenly ceased, and the longing for the familiar returned. She realized, as she watched her once family, now strangers, she yearned for what once was, not what now is. The pain of loss, another great patriarch of the family, returned to the ground, weighed heavily on her heart; but the revelation that she missed those she had spent so much time resenting, crushed her soul.
“Chaos was the law of nature; order was the dream of man.”
While admiring the endless beauty around me on a hike with my family, I came across this aged apple tree. All of the apples had dropped, the only evidence that it bore fruit this year were a few cores left behind by the deer. But it wasn’t the graceful, twisting branches reaching skyward that pulled at my attention, it was the excessive amount of moss that clung to every section of bark. When I got closer for a better look, the concept of chaos presented itself to me.
I know, I’m reaching on this one. Boxes on a beak? What in the world is she talking about? Well, you see, the Inktober topic is “box” for today, and I was set on drawing a raven since it’s the time of year and all.. so there you go, boxes on a beak!
When I was in elementary school, there was an aged, dilapidated house right next door to our building. A cliche, grumpy, old man lived in the house that was surrounded by a wall of pine trees. The story was that the old man hated people, and never talked to anyone; but he talked to the animals.
Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.
– Carl Jung
Thanks again to Charles French for the nomination, be sure to check out his blog and recently released novel if you haven’t done so!
There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
– Albert Einstein
Day 2 of the 3 Quotations in 3 Days Challenge. If you are interested in joining, please refer to my previous post and feel free to add a link in the comments.
Thanks again to Charles French for the nomination, be sure to check out his blog and recently released novel if you haven’t done so!
“Why does the willow weep?” the girl asked her mother, blue eyes shining with curiosity. Her mother’s lips curved into a knowing grin and looked to the tree, as if visiting a distant memory. The girl looked to the tree as well, eager for an answer to her question. The girl tugged lightly at her mother’s hand hanging at her side. “Is it sad, mommy?”
The mother knelt to her daughter’s height and brushed light-brown bangs back from the round face of her child. Nodding, she replied, “Yes my dear, the willow is sad. And that is why it weeps.”
The girl furrowed her brow and looked to the tree, then back to her mother, “But why is it sad?”
“When the word ‘Nostalgia’ was coined in the 18th century, it was used to describe a pathology – not so much a sense of lost time, but a severe homesickness.”
-Nicole Krauss
I was born into the fifth generation of my father’s family, in a small valley in Idaho. Nestled at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, I always felt a sense of wonder at the enormous peaks to the north, and the dry desert to the south. I knew our humble five acres like the back of my hand, and the surrounding farmland was my personal playground.
His eyes were like two endless wells. His muzzle soft as silk. The white snip on the tip of his nose conveyed his playful nature. His long, sleek legs seemed fragile until the sinewy muscles flexed and announced their powerful presence. The immense bay had three socks as dark as the night, one as bright as the spot that obscures vision when the sun is stared at. The natural curve of his neck was obscured by his thick, black mane. The end of his tale brushed the back of his knees. He was her definition of untamed beauty. He was the embodiment of graceful. The girl raised her arms as they flew through the cool autumn evening, two hearts beating to the rhythm of release.
Special thank you to a wonderful blog I follow: Sableyes for bringing Inktober to my attention.
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt: Facade
The wall had always been there. She’d grown alongside it; her height increasing each year, the stones chipping and weathering in turn. The realization that the top of the structure didn’t reach the moon had been the last wonder of her childhood to be dashed to bits. Now it was merely a canvas for aspiring artists in her eyes. It was a right of passage to create a mural on the wall that didn’t get painted over, and this is what she found herself striving for.
Alice was soft spoken, shy and unassuming, but she had aspirations to be more. Although she lacked a special skill to contribute to the community, she knew the beauty trapped within her mind would make up for her deficit. She was no savant, and she had to hone her abilities. So she began the habit of trekking along the wall each day, leading her far from the settlement. She had been lucky to discover a slight curve in the wall that offered some seclusion so that she could practice painting.
If Moms Could Write 