They always said DeLila daydreamed too much; she needed to pay attention to her work.
They always said DeLila was rather spacey . . . drifty . . . flighty . . .
Some said DeLila’s imagination was too fantastic; she wasn’t grounded in reality.
One said DeLila would never amount to much.
Another said she was likely to one day just flit away and never come back.
You know what, that’s just what she did.
Weekly Photo Challenge: State of Mind and reposted today for Magic. I wish more people would, if just for a portion of their day, use a state of mind more like DeLila, who I invented here. We could just pop ourselves into a bubble and let the breeze carry us somewhere else. I have no doubt many bloggers practice this way nonetheless. I used this photo recently in another post but it felt appropriate for this week’s challenge. I love the weekly challenges, I ponder them all week and look at my world through a different lens because of the themes.
By the way, after I composed this flash fiction I made a quick internet search for the name Delila which I chose for no good reason. I found this story and songs of Delila, a Kurdish song writer, drummer, protester, warrior woman who was killed by a Turkish soldier. She was not at all like the character I invented here. Her music is delightful and mesmerizing, though I don’t understand the lanuage of her lyrics.
I’m back from 20 minutes timed writing. Things have been happening here, strange sounds from a grave sized hole we dug for a tree last fall, now filled with muddy water, lights in the sky, owls hooting, boulders I swear were not on the ridge last fall before the snow, a flash of my stepdad’s plaid shirt, his arm on the arm of my wicker love seat on the front deck, its back to the window. He died in 2008. I look away from the pane, realize what I have glimpsed and look back. Nothing there. But it felt so real. I’m sure it was there. The old dog’s frequent nose bleeds. All that blood, it is from the dog, right? That sort of thing. No doubt all can be explained but it’s fun to let my imagination lead the way and get something on the page. Since I spent a lot of money and time in a horror writers workshop in Transylvania last summer, I might as well practice the writing craft, fiction that is. It is fiction, right?
Beneath the south arch supporting the medieval shop rested an ancient looking crone. Her scarf tied loosely under her chin adorned her complicated face. Spongy sandals comforted her toes. She dressed in tidy dark skirt and vest. The tiny woman smoked her cigarette and tilted a bunch of white hydrangea and gold mums toward me.
Her face was carved in abstract creases shaped by time. The wrinkles gave her the look of wisdom and suffering that comes from experiencing life with unguarded emotions. But her folded skin was not a true guide to her spirit. It was her eyes looking straight into mine, not with insight but with mischief and delight and recognition, that hinted at some joy she felt in that moment. She sipped her espresso from the little crimson cup and balanced it back on a stone at her feet next to an enormous yellow shopping bag, a bright sunflower printed on its shiny surface.
Between us stretched the cobblestone street that made our joints ache. Perhaps we noticed each other because we were the only two women in Shighisoara who wore sensible shoes this hot afternoon. But I feel it was something else that brought us together. She sat in the threshold, one door open to the long shady corridor behind her leading to a locked iron gate, the other door closed next to her showing the engraved pattern gracing its edge. The old architecture of the square juxtaposed with that of this knarly sweet person spoke to me.
I asked if I could photograph her and she nodded and sat straighter, posing. When she saw her images on my camera screen she smiled in silent approval. But I know I heard her say, “Today was a good day.”
These photographs are my contribution to the WordPress weekly photo challenge: Today Was a Good Day. I met this woman in Transylvania this summer. The experience hasn’t left me. A story waits here, an exchange between us that calls to be developed. Soon enough.
This week’s photo challenge asked us to create a Mesh gallery. It didn’t feel right for these two photos but I will try it out in another post when I have a gallery to exhibit.
Emily squinted toward the privy, hoping Frank was still there. When she last saw him he had rolled up the Cabella’s catalog and stuffed it in his hip pocket, grabbed a PBR from the cooler, and left the kitchen door swinging open. That always signaled he was heading to his one-holer library. But this time he had not returned. She would have heard the creak of the cooler lid as he reached for another beer. Dusk deepened in a whispering symphony of shadows and the sky pressed down upon the ridge saying hush. How she hated this time of evening when she could distinguish few colors except crimson tones in the outhouse plank that Frank had replaced after he’d come at her with his axe last November. She wouldn’t hide from him ever again. She pulled back the hammer on Frank’s Winchester and pressed the butt firmly against the soft flesh below her collarbone. The heavy steel was cold in her grip. She felt her neck swell with blood pulsing so hard she could hear nothing else. Her fear and wrath excited her. And it felt so right.
The story is flash fiction, I made it up today. If you knew Frank you wouldn’t doubt one of his six wives might have killed him. For his privacy I won’t tell you what really killed him, but he did have a meaningful part of himself amputated in an attempt to save his life. Failed. I didn’t know a man can get cancer there! Look closely and you can see the top of my home in the background. I don’t have an outhouse. Nor a Winchester. And the horror genre is new to me. I’m getting ready to go the the Horror Writers Workshop in Transylvania this summer so this is just a small step in that direction. You’ll more likely see fantasy and magical realism in my poems and stories. Those are also in the horror genre, the “new black”. Dark fiction. This January post tells about the Horror Writers Workshop. There are still a few openings. You can find the link in that post. I posted a poem with another monochromatic version of Frank’s place here.
Today’s photo challenge is Architecture and Monochrome. I photographed Frank’s place in Feb. 2015. It’s decaying since he died several years ago. I doubt there were building codes when he constructed it. Shadows lend the look of Mystery, a previous daily photo challenge. And the walls address the weekly photo challenge Wall. Click https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/wall/ to see more Wall photos by other bloggers and https://skybluedaze.wordpress.com/2015/03/15/wall/ to see my earlier Wall post, rather macabre. I took some time adjusting these photos in Photoshop CS4 to create moods and tryout monotone design techniques. In the slideshow above you can see the untouched images next to those I adjusted. I’m still more comfortable in a real true old fashioned darkroom with an enlarger and chemicals. But digital tools are rather amusing, cheaper, and maybe faster. To find out about the WordPress Photo 101 course, which has a daily photo assignment, and see more photos in this challenge, click here https://photo101march2015.wordpress.com/. You might have to be registered for the course to use the link.