I lie scattered,
like an old toy that has been used, abused and outlived its value.
My kohl-sodden tears etch the tumultuous journey of my life across my withered face.
Somewhere in the recess of my foggy mind the wail of a siren gets louder.
*****
In response to Three Line Tales 246
Long
purposeful strides leading somewhere…
A somewhere that could very well be nowhere…
Yet even a purpose to nowhere is better than no purpose at all.
Written for Week 245 of Three Line Tales
Hand in hand we walk down the archway of love
Green grass below, blue sky above
While thorns rip through my trailing veil
There is only so long that the high of adulation can neutralize the dishonour of living a lie.
In this world of hypocrisy and bigotry this quixotic display was career suicide.
But if having the world watch would reenergise the conversation, then so be it.
_________________________________
“Be a man and shoot,” hissed the cold grey eyes.
“Be human,” pleaded the soft brown eyes.
But what is being human?… that was the question…
In response to Three Line Tales#242
“It’s supposed to be our honeymoon. You wanted a romantic place. You wanted a surprise. I’m not asking you to swim, just walk across a few bridges.”
The brochure he waved before my face did nothing to reduce my panic or dislodge my frozen feet.
Somehow my desperate shaky hands managed to open Google and type “Potamophobia.”
In response to Week 241 of Three Line Tales.
Photo by Sam Mouat via Unsplash
Note: Potamophobia is the irrational fear of rivers or running water. Suddenly I wondered ‘what if a Venetian actually feared water?’ and thus sprang this tale.
When the streets were barren, when the lights were dimming, when the ancient clock tower threatened to strike six, the old man’s words often came back to hound him; ‘These paintings won’t put food on your table.’
The old man was wrong. Everyone with a buck in the pocket wanted to be an art aficionado, and the replicas sold really well.
The old man was right too. A hungry belly made him put down his brushes. The colourful prints splashed behind him were for the passersby; he himself looked down at the grey cobble.
In response to Week 153 of Three Line Tales, based on a photo by Beata Ratuszniak via Unsplash
photo by Lalo via Unsplash
Through choppy seas and misty winds
Take flight despite the drag on your wings
For the song of life is yours to sing
Though the path be dark
If you fail you face the shark
Yet of the skies you are the king
Defy the gail to paint the sky
The tides may change yet fly on high
Let the angels sing to the beat of your zing
In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales: Week 148 challenge.
Title credit goes to Richard Bach. The picture reminded me of his book by the same name.
It didn’t really matter that her scales were all over the place, or that each tune sounded no different than the other; as a true artist, she performed from her heart, straight into the hearts of her audience.
As the song finished, she was greeted with thunderous claps and cheers.
She was the star performer of the Mercy Home for Special Kids.
In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales: Week 147 challenge, based on a photo by Lechon Kirb via Unsplash
I did everything you wanted; gave you my love, loyalty, my best.
Then the world came along to demean me, ‘Ah, what a well-trained pet,’ they said.
That didn’t really bother me, until you turned around and acknowledged, ‘O Yes.’
In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales: Week 142 challenge, based on a photo by Wyatt Ryan via Unsplash
