The Day She Wore Red #microfiction

It promised to be a beautiful day full of white lace and champagne toasts. The dress swished as she walked. Like a princess she smiled at her entourage of hope. Handsome men were clad in grey and they waved to the bridemaids across the corridor. The chords of beautiful music floated from the chapel as the doors were opened … waiting.

“Here’s you bouquet.” The bride inhaled the beauty of the day.

“This is your course unless…” a family member looked more solemn than she should.

“What can go wrong?” the bride wanted to fling her bouquet toward happy tomorrows.

The day and everything about it was perfect.

****

She opened her gift as he went to get champagne for a toast. In it was a cold gray blade that mirrored the flicker of candlelight. A note was caressing it.

Slit your throat and make an easy end or your life. Or choose that each day will be torment and hell. ~ A

“Who would slit their throat?” she gasped back tears that were supposed to be relishing future happiness.

“There is one other option.” She heard a whisper in the crackles of the fire. “His instead of yours.”

With her head in her hands, she reached a resolution.

“What groom would want his bride to take her life?” She looked at the knife and slipped the note in her corset.

He came in rather unsteady with a bottle in hand. A look of surprise that she wasn’t lying dead on the floor; instead she was clothed in black leather.

“You have decided then.” He laughed a nepharious cackle.

“Yes” she slid the sharp blade silently against a bulging jugular.

“Here dear this belongs to you.” She deftly place the knife in his right hand and tucked a note into his pocket. It explained that he could not continue a life where he was trapped with a woman he did not love.

“Can’t get this soiled.” White lace was folded and carefully put in a pillow case. She slipped into her red travelling dress glad that he had told her he liked red headed lovers. The wig presented an excellent disguise.

“I’m glad you insisted on red.” she whispered to her husband as she slid into 4 inch red stilettos.

She left the black riding whip on the bed stand. “For another time perhaps…”

Bouquet for Her #poetry #photography

I circled her fresh face with my fingertips

ruby red were her luscious lips

spring her blossom ever green

awaken not from this dream

summer harsh it takes the glow

dew’s gone, nothing will grow

our love languish in her eyes

 robbing heat  I ever despise

colors change,  bouquet of woe

her faded lips her time I know

nothing lasts, she is so pale

catch the fall, of her I’ve failed

tulip-heart

 brightens my day

seasons flow like water

can’t catch red petals

Today’s prompt at Poet’s United is Appreciation. I have a recent love of red tulips. Sadly tulips do not last.

“Red” is in this Season #prose #socialism #photography

red head

“You look good in red,” all the store clerks said as they gathered round admiring their work.

I shook my head and pointed, “I like that one!”

It was the same coat just in a rich royal blue.

“No, that was last season’s coat. It is not for you.”

I pulled the coat up next to my skin. My blue eyes became more vibrant.

“Yes. I like the blue.” My eight- year- old spirit was not going to be railroaded.

“We could not possibly sell this coat to you,”  the clerk shook his head firmly at my mama.

“Then I will have none,” I stomped out of the store.

It was that way all over town. It was as if everyone had swallowed the same bitter pill.

“This season’s color is red,” she pointed at a red dress.

“This season’s color is red,” he pointed at a red chapeau.

“I want blue!” I pointed at a blue cap on a mannequin in a dusty corner.

In walked a little girl the same age as myself. She carried herself like a soldier at eight.

“There it is,” she smiled like a snake at the last blue hat in the store.

The store clerk gladly pulled the hat off the mannequin.

“It needs red.”

The girl looked at me from the corner of her eye, as she pulled out an emblem of red to be sewn on her hat.

“Do it quickly,” the girl clapped her hands in a practiced motion.

A clerk rushed to the back to have the emblem sewn on.

I walked out of the store. “So this is how it is.”

The general’s daughter could have whatever she wanted: drives in fancy cars, ice cream at the confectioner’s shop, and a blue coat and hat.

I went back to the first shop.

“I would like three of those red coats, please.”

At the next shop: ” I would like four of those red dresses, please.”

“Yes, five red chapeaux s’il vous plait. No need for an emblem. It will wear one soon enough.”

I will hate the color red. I will dye the underneath of each garment a different color. I will never have the cold heart of a militant marionette. Not even when I turn nine.

“My blood underneath will still run blue,” I smiled.

 

 

 

Raze #poetry #photography

This rapid burn

losing ink on my page

raised caulderon of letters

illuminates my mind

for one moment

fueled flash

clarifies the past

I taste the ash

burning my moist lips

holding the last remnant

of you

a little too long

spitting out

the scorched after-taste

realizing

you put this flame

of destruction

in motion

I don’t always use music to inspire my writing but I’ve been listening to Taylor Swift and Red and these words alight

Photograph: “Evening’s Fury” L. Moon copyright 2012

Final Stroke #atoz #art #shortstory

you – the writer, poet, photographer, painter, sculptor creators who impact the world with words, shape, color, a vision. What would you want to be remembered for when you are gone?

The final brush stroke…

she held her breath knowing what had seemed like a lifetime of creating  would be culminated at this final pass of color. For a moment she heard a child laughing with glee as she pranced around the studio with her first paint brush from her grand pere. “I was so full of life, exuberance, potential then. I knew I would be a talented artist with many commissioning my work. I was too much the dreamer.”

A brush fell…

“What if this final mark on my years as an artist is a flop?” She turned as if speaking to stacks of blank and partly finished canvasses.

“You must” she spoke assuring the canvas that they must move forward.

What the art enthusiasts did  not know is that she felt each painting would be her last. The beginning stages of applying gesso and sketching out her subject was like birth for her soul; the final touches But it was not the brush she had been using. Taking a lasting stroke with what she believed was a subtle cream ;she left a mark on her painting that would be talked about by historians and students for generations.

“The stroke of red made this a masterpiece”

“She knew the stroke of red would be like a crescendo in the art world.”

“It symbolized her heart failing her.”

“It was a dagger…”

They found her in a pool of red. In her glorious world of finished and unfinished creations.

Her final work had indeed been the most influential piece of her career.

***

Some day I will finish my life work which is a biographical fiction about my mother’s life. An artist who has made everything she touches a masterpiece. In her youth, she painted and made history.

This piece ” Final Stroke” is my creation for the letter “S ” in the month long A to Z writing challenge,

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