It was a mistake to make a parlor trick of her wall walking, the ninja thought, now people thrilled at the silent sound of her footfall before she dispatch them. They died with delight in their eyes, her employers wouldn’t like that.
No one ever bought me a diamond ring, though one did drive across country pulling tiger lilies out of ditches and filled his truck bed with them to be mine.
He opened the truck gate and those flowers glowed in the morning sun mightily. He was all salt sweat and tired from days of driving, his weary face beamed in the sun just for me. The birds were singing like they’d been waiting all night to queue up the moment. The storybook beauty of it isn’t lost on me, that morning was right out of a fairy tale.
I wish I could tell you a fairy tale ending, but we weren’t each others’ stories.
Broken hearts will cling to anyone; and my, aren’t I easy to cling to for those that are broken like that. They come to me all raw and vulnerable and I love them, I do… but I know to throw them back. Even a flawless diamond will appear dull and muted if the cut is poor.
And I threw him back, him and his flower bed, all the way back to Carolina. I wish I could tell you it was bittersweet but it’s only that way looking back… Back then nothing stuck and I didn’t want it to, my heart was scared and Teflon, cruel and non-reactive, and his heart wasn’t much better, empty except for daydreams.
Dispersion causes the white light to be separated into multiple colors
I’ve been married twice, and proposed to some times past that; Once I laid in a bed of tiger lilies and pretended for a night that I was a diamond, but I’ve never been offered anything past the daydreams of broken men. I sit with that, my weary face beaming in the sun… the light a diamond reflects is referred to as its ‘fire’ … The remaining rays of light travel into the center of the diamond and bounce off its internal walls.
Your protagonist has a broken wing, your protagonist is dying, your protagonist is idolized by a race that lived in the edges of your shadow.
Your protagonist is shadow, your protagonist eats shadow, your protagonist is a carnival of black auroras. Your protagonist is writers block.
Your protagonist is writing. Your protagonist is flying. Your protagonist is nobody’s hero so just fucking forget the plot already.
Your protagonist is a wolf, your protagonist is a bird, your protagonist lives deep in the wooded glen near all your childhood memories.
Your protagonist hates your mother, your protagonist is your mother, your mother lives on edges of the shadows of your protagonist’s climax.
Your climax is a lie, your climax is rubbish, your protagonist hates your climax, your protagonist is your climax, your protagonist is a lie.
Your protagonist is dead. This story is a broken wing.
Yesterday I met my old barista Pippa, in the street… her red hair flowing, baby on her hip… and it was like watching my life on replay.
“Remember when I used to pour your coffee? Remember when I thought that that was as good as life would get for me?”
Did we both ask that question? Did she ask it at all? Am I confusing who is who?
She said “I couldn’t place you for a moment, last year is so long ago”…
She’s starting anew. She looked radiant. My heart leaped.
I think our hearts each poured into the other’s then… and maybe that’s really what happens in time travel when your past and future selves meet. We didn’t create a paradox, but a new paradigm. A cappuccino can be poured as soon as the milk is ready; you can move the milk back and forth between vessels to speed the process but the milk and foam will find perfect balance on their own.