As time turns the page, my soul longs for an ancient place deep within your bones,

I crave a home that I do not remember, yet my soul screams for it.

You’re the echo of a million moments, a symphony in my heart that serenades my soul throughout the day.

I am but a wanderer, eternally yearning for the unwritten chapters of you and I.

As time turns the page, my soul longs for an ancient place deep within your bones,

I crave a home that I do not remember, yet my soul screams for it.

You’re the echo of a million moments, a symphony in my heart that serenades my soul throughout the day.

I am but a wanderer, eternally yearning for the unwritten chapters of you and I.

You feel like my twin flame and a soulmate.

Or maybe you’re just something else,

a cosmic soul connected to me and the Universe.

The profound bond between us has left me

comatose under the dead lights that once touched the

hearts of ancient kings and queens.

You have shifted my world on its axis

and tilted my heart so my love spills into your hands only.

You move me.

The snow around these parts tend to linger like a moth to a flame. Old man winter is always hard-pressed to just get up and go away. But winter seemed to finally being losing its tightening bodice upon the land, though in the distance, white could still be seen overlapping mountain tips that never disappeared even in the hottest of summers. Strange how that works when you come to think about it.

Still, the winds of change, the rainfall upon the land, dances, and romances, bringing a natural beauty to life. Flowers open their petals like greeting an old friend. The grass grows a little greener, the leaves on the trees spruce up as they capture raindrops. Rivers and lakes swell and when clouds burst open, a sort of magic appears with reds, purples, yellows, and on rare days, you will see twin rainbows gracing a sea-blue sky.

What was, before the tides of frosty winter did sink into the dark recess giving way to a spring, did fade and die. But as with years past, it will happen again, Death of nature is a recurring theme. Even in its death, it holds a certain beauty.

Perhaps, one day, the earth will stop turning, the skies will turn black, and all life as we know it now, will cease in all its glory. After all, life and death have partnered together since time began. But that day, that time is still far away, yet we should all give prayer this never happens.

Meanwhile, today is a good day to take my grandson fishing.

__________

This short-short story is based on a poem written by slnmten. Those who follow her on Prose know her as Navila.

Thank ye for allowing me this opportunity, Navila.

__________

I knew you by a different name

Golden effervescence

Gorged petrichor

Cloudburst dance upon tongue

West winds loosening the bodice of winter

Phased blooms promising death

Prayer upon dead earth.

It’s approximately twenty-four hours since the best mistake I’ve ever made. I’m holding out hope that it wasn’t a mistake, and everything will turn out fine, but that would be uncharacteristically optimistic for me. Now I can only hope that it doesn’t turn everything I’ve ever worked for into dust.

Darian Russell is a charming man, and I’m an even more charming woman. Not to flatter myself, but we all know it’s true. So put two and two together. He texts me, we have wine, we end up sprawled across his hotel bed, all clothing and dignity long forgotten. I can only hope that, despite this, he still agrees to turn my book into a movie, what with him being a producer and all.

God, I hope this deal still goes through.

The waiter puts my salad in front of me, which I’m not very keen on eating, but I’m meant to look like some kind of polite, regular, not-falling-apart woman, and those kinds of women eat salads.

The two men across from me have finally moved on to talking to someone further down the table, alternating who asks the questions. Both journalists; I’d accepted business cards from them both earlier, with plans to recycle because I may be a bitch but I do have a green thumb. They had asked me questions about my upcoming novel, as if I know any better than them.

It’s a work-not-work happy hour, meaning I get told it’s not work but I get yelled at if I drink too many margaritas. It’s actually a networking event, and I’m stuck at the end of a long table full of potentially important contacts, as Bram put it, trying to make charming conversation.

Bram, always sticking his nose into my business, leans sideways into my personal bubble. His pasta dish has just arrived. “Macie, what’s going on?”

I sip my margarita, smiling pleasantly over the rim at nothing in particular. “Whatever do you mean?” Sometimes in my attempts to stay civil I begin to talk like a Dickens character. Or something. I haven’t read Dickens since high school.

“You’re checking your phone obsessively,” he hisses, flattening his napkin against his thigh.

I turn in my seat, accidentally bumping his knee. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother. Is it no phones at the table?” I ask, setting down my glass and giving him a pointed look.

Bram purses his lips and breathes out through his nose. “It’s just that you’ve been making a face like you’re about to pass out for the last half hour.”

I face forward again, accidentally catching the eye of one of the journalists–either Houston or Riley, I can’t remember because they both had such awful names. He smiles and lifts his glass, holding eye contact. I quickly look down at my salad, which has not gotten more appealing.

“I’m waiting for someone to text me back,” I mutter to Bram, looking up just as Houston and Riley lean together, one of them whispering a word that sounds horrifyingly close to ‘smash’, as their eyes dart back to me.

“Can it wait?” Bram asks, stabbing at his pasta. They’re the bow-tie ones, all dressed up just to get eaten. Me too, I think.

“Hey, I wanted to ask, what inspired the The Lakeside Haunt?” asks one of the journalists suddenly. He’s got a little slug-like mustache, makes him look more like a Houston than a Riley. “It’s my favorite of your books,” he adds, leaning in.

I nod and take a dainty bite of salad, making him wait. Then I smile placidly and say, “Oh, you know. I think trips to the seaside as a kid was a big inspiration.” I twirl my fork in my salad. “What kind of writing was it that you said you did?”

I could hear Bram sigh next to me. Luckily most men don’t expect us pea-brained women to retain much. Houston says, “Gossip column. Fanfare Today Magazine.” This is new to me, actually. He hadn’t admitted that before, and that’s a fact.

“How fun! The gossip column, why that’s fantastic.” I smile stiffly as I turn to Bram. I cannot believe he thought a gossip columnist could be an ‘important contact’. I’m about to get a movie deal, for god’s sake.

Bram raises his eyebrows at me, which usually means behave. Instead, I lay a hand on Bram’s arm, which makes his body freeze up and his mouth twitch down. “Actually, Bram was just telling me an amusing story. Probably nothing as good as what you write, of course, but surely he’d love to tell it.”

Bram’s jaw is tightening, which means I’m breaking him out of his professional nonchalance. A personal victory to me. “I don’t think–”

“Oh, you know,” I goad in a sultry voice. “The one about the fisherman. It’s hilarious.” I turn back to Houston and Riley. “You’ll both love it. I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room real quick.” I wink at them, then pat Bram on the hand.

He glares at me as I stand, and I smile back.

The harsh light in the restaurant bathroom makes me look pale. Which should be impossible due to all my hours on the beach. I’m nothing if not tan. I check my phone again, swiping away notifications from my sister, who wants money again, missed calls from my friend Jamie, who probably has dating drama, and reminders for me to do thinks like laundry and buy shampoo because I keep putting them off. No messages from Darian TV Producer Russell. Not a single word from him since we’d slept together, which I don’t know how to interpret. Good thing? Bad thing?

The bathroom door opens, and a woman in a leopard-print jacket gives me a once-over, one white tennis shoe holding the door open. She looks out into the hallway and says, “Yeah, she’s in here.”

“Tell her to come out. Please.” Bram’s voice. My whole stomach feels empty, and not just because all I had was a single bite of a shitty salad.

The woman raises her eyebrows at me and holds the door wider. I close my eyes because my head is churning like a washing machine. I double check my phone. The woman shakes her head and enters, the door swinging behind her, and locks herself in a stall.

“He seems worried,” she says to me through the stall.

I sigh. “Sorry. Thanks,” I tell her, trying to sound sincere because I mean it. It’s not her fault tonight is shitty. Why is it so shitty? Not enough alcohol, maybe? “I like your lipstick,” I tell her as I’m leaving, because nothing says thank you like a compliment in a public restroom.

Bram’s got his arms folded, trying to make himself smaller in the space of the tiny, tiny restaurant hallway. He’s not doing a good job of it because when I come to stand next to him I’m close enough to smell the pasta sauce on his breath.

“You done hiding?” His eyebrows are lowered, and his hair is in wisps across his forehead. He’s exactly the kind of person that writers love to describe, because he’s got all the right features for it. Golden blonde hair and piercing eyes and cheekbones, yada yada yada. I’m annoyed with him.

I adjust my crossbody bag across my chest, but his eyes don’t leave my face. “Why are they here? Is there anyone out there that’s worth my time? Why am I here?”

Bram shakes his head. His posture is stiff but his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Do you have better things to do? What’s going on, who are you texting?”

“More like who am I not texting,” I reply bitterly, checking my phone one last time. Another text from my sister, and an email from my credit card company.

Bram straightens to his full height, which is about equal to mine because of my excessively tall heels. He’s very much in my personal space now, but I’m not backing down. “Well?”

The space in my head shrinks until there are no more thoughts, and I choke out a laugh. “Darian,” I tell him.

“What?”

I jut my chin out so our faces are inches apart. I make sure to enunciate every syllable. “I fucked Darian Russel, and now I’m waiting for the consequences.”

For a moment I think Bram’s eyes are going to fall out of his head. He’s looking at me but not seeing me. He recoils. “What?”

The women’s bathroom door opens, and Miss Leopard Print walks out, stopping to eye us both. Bram and I press ourselves against opposite walls so that she can squeeze through the space between us. She gives me a single eyebrow quirk as she passes, which I think is supposed to be reassuring, but really I’m not sure.

“You didn’t.” Bram’s turned back into Professional Bram. His words aren’t even clipped; he doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. He’s just stating words. Like facts.

I hate to talk to him like this. Like there’s no reason or emotion to any of this, like following a specific path–shake that hand, say this, smile for the camera–and everything will fall into place. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Darian, but I don’t regret it. It was amazing and I’d do it again, theoretically. And I don’t have time to listen to Bram tell me that this isn’t the ‘right way’ to do things. Or that it’s ‘unprofessional’.

I give Bram one last look, chin still raised. “I did. But don’t worry, I won’t be taking any of the losers here today home, you can be damn sure about that.” And then, like a badass who just delivered a clever line, I walk away.

When I get home I stare at my computer screen until I can’t see anything, then crawl into bed and dream about sea monsters dragging me underwater and watching me choke.

--

pt 1: https://theprose.com/post/642933/living-in-the-moment

do you think i'm a princess

could i be a queen?

i scoffed at the child's dreams

now i sympathize with her screams

who wants to be queen?

she carries the weight of a world

from her bed, all tangled and curled

limbs mimicking a moth's wings furled

don't you love butterflies

catch some with me

i watch the reel in agony

see her walk the same road as me

becoming who she doesn't want to be

where is she who raced after butterflies

who agonized over the simplest goodbyes

who could stand by herself in every fight

which do you think is best:

living or dying - quite frankly i don't see the difference

hey, honey, neither do i - it's true

death is black but living ain't skies of blue

and i seriously haven't got a clue

just curl up and go to bed, that's what i do

you could try it, it might work for you too

but i really don't know what else either of us can do

can't live for dreams, can't live for me

is sleeping all you can think of as a solution for me?

...............................................................................

I finally put a name to it

You are my favourite room

I can roam the entire house

It's become a mansion

But in the end, I'll always return to you

I'll curl up in my favourite chair

I'll stare out the window

Violins will serenade, filling the air

And I'll sit there without a care

Watching the sky go from black to blue

You'll remind me not to demolish

Every other room outside this one

Remind me to keep trying

Buy some paint and decorations

Enough fairy lights to circle the world

Please, wrap my blanket around me

After I fall asleep here

You and I both know I will wake up

Tomorrow to my own room

And try to find my way back to you

Lost in a maelstrom,

floundering in a sea of rage,

heaven’s black as hell is red,

no road to find,

no escape awaiting you,

no hope in sight

and caring is useless.

remember one thing—your life.

Your life is your hope.

Fight against the raging sea,

swim, kick your way to shore,

look to the shoreline,

the road is there,

keep fighting to get there,

never give in to the voices,

never give up you will find hope,

for heaven will break into a glimmer of light,

and hell cannot touch the soul

that still believes hope is alive … somewhere.

nothing soothes a broken heart

for a short, short while

like truly good food

and a caring smile

but both leave soon enough

leaves me in the sadness

i mourn your loss, my friend

i drown in the sadness

hope is gone, it left

the poem, the song

are you happy - you were right

you knew the truth all along

you took my beautiful trophy

the art that explained so well

just to prove your point

another emotional hell

do you hate me - you must

why do you hate as much as love

i know you long for it

but i'm not ready for the below or above

midnight musings don't exist with me

i'm fast asleep by then - far away

in my dreams i find i am safe

i call it my haven, my hope

but it's not forever for me

it's not a place i can stay

it washes away - a wave

of morning reality where i have to cope

goodmorning, goodbye

to my drug and my high

one day i'll choose sleep

not the kind where i can keep

you in my heart - for death has no dream