Ellie looked so stricken that Tommy was afraid to leave. Although they were ghosts, invisible, there was still agency in that spirit that it was best not to leave unguarded. Ellie’s eyes burned as she leaned over the bed where her husband-in-life lay. The room was stifled with sickness, but a cold breeze stirred and fluttered the pages of the open book on the desk.
“Ellie,” said Tommy, in a loud whisper. “What are you doing?”
Elyse (502 Words)
“Dear heart, why do you hide yourself?”
He cradled her gloved hand in both his own, his sharp face earnest. The wrappings beside him stirred in sudden discomfort, and the hand he held strained momentarily to free itself.
“I don’t know,” said Elyse.
“Sweet one, tell me. Or better still, let me see and understand.”
His insistence coupled with his choice of words alerted her to the possibility that he was not quite so ignorant after all. The bundle jerked emphatically from him.
Devil of a Deal
If I were forced to give up one sense for super-acuity in another, which would I choose for advancement and which—dear God, which—would I sign away as a handicap, dead to me and gone?
“A gift, you say?” I said. “This is not a gift—it is a punishment!”
The devil tapped his foot with some impatience.
“Call it a cost,” said he. “You’ve got here thanks to your books and thinking, into a dimension well out of your space and time; and now you have got to get out. Be happy you leave with your life. But no trip to Hell is made without a lasting impression. Now what will it be? Blindness in exchange for the sensory apparatus of a bat? Taste for the nose of a bloodhound?”
There are lots of doors. Writing is a door. Art is a door. One of the facets of creative work that has always fascinated me most is the ability to inspire creation. When you see really compelling artwork, you don’t just see a 2D image–you see a story–and that is the beginning of your own journey.
When Wallie and I were faced with today’s prompt, we were in a bind. We knew that if this blog is to survive it must, well, go on. But when it came to “Survival” we were stuck.
“Write about your dying blog,” said my Friend. “Write about fighting for its life.”
Wallie was more interested in surviving the Jungle Orzos and its evil pear-eating birds.
Here is a mix.
Wallie the Imp has a lot of bad habits.
I don’t want to talk about his. I want to talk about mine.
When Wallie the Imp, my Friend, and I heard the prompt for today’s post, courtesy of The Daily Post—“Write a letter to your 14-year-old self”—we rushed to grab our pens and paper. I sat at the table, my Friend took the armchair, and the Imp was on top of the refrigerator.
Wallie the Imp tells me mortality is all in the definition.
Wallie the Imp and I flatter ourselves we do quite well under pressure. This is another story.
Wallie the Imp has a soft spot for fairy tales. I suppose that has something to do with his being, to all intents and purposes, a horrible little goblin himself. He says this story is fairy-tale-telling at its best. And while his opinion is usually off the wall, this time I quite agree.