Beyond Betrayal

Summer died that night. I was sixteen, set up on a date with a friend’s brother, I went reluctantly for fear of being different and dateless.

My world fell apart as I was used like a non-person, thrown and battered, brutally raped and left staggering on the cold beach.

I sat shivering and alone until dawn outside the house party, being refused entry as curfew had passed.

The chaperoning couple sent me home. Disgraced in front of my friends and humiliated, I was unable to share what had happened.

My shame was unbearable as I was sure it was my fault somehow. The feelings of betrayal, disg and fear blew up to monstrous size as the hours passed.

My parents knew me well and realized that something more than my being late for curfew was going on. My dad hit the nail on the head, but I denied it had happened.

The bruises, both on my body and the ones inside were as self evident as I was self effacing.

Something besides summer died that night.


Once the boy came home it was inevitable. Sherman left most even the sane folk jumpy, some just plain dangerous. Hot as it was with people hungry and wandering about, he had to see his mama. Make things right.

Through glassy eyes the bottle blurred in her sticky hands. Opium dreams waved in and out of Hollis-her husband, blood dripping from his temple of Lucas-her doctor of Hollie-her honest, good, upright only child/wounded soldier-all as lovers.  

The doctor gazed at her from the other side of the bed, remembering how he had loved her at seventeen, at twenty-one and at thirty-before the war, before Hollis, before the opium. He hated himself for not loving her now, for all that had happened in this room. 

Honor and right told Hollie he had to see to his mama now that his daddy was gone. He would not believe what they said about his daddy or would he? He sent him to Military school at twelve and he had learned right from wrong. He came from good people-a great southern family. He was a proud Confederate officer, unlike Lucas.

Hearing footsteps, Lucas turned his gaze away from the woman. Her sticky hands got the bottle to her lips and she swallowed. She heard the door shut as Lucas left. From somewhere far away she heard a sound like thunder. A voice from far away was calling, “Mama”. 

The boy/soldier/proud/man got no answer. He stood gazing down at his mama, still and staring, smoking pistol in his hand. Lightening flashed and it began to rain.


How Erotic, To Be Understood

All that is ambiguous…all that could be or should be..
that has no boundaries, inexplicable, bigger than ourselves…


images (1)image

What inspires us?

A friend who follows my blog once commented that those who read my posts were sometimes confused; that they liked most of what I wrote about and enjoyed it all, but were often left wondering-like where in the world did that one come from?! She asked me where I get my ideas and inspiration. As you all know, that is the question, is it not?

For instance-I have had this little colored square saved in my media for months and just realized what the acronym stands for! Well, maybe I am in some respects. I just looked at the individual words and thought, “That’s me!” or hoped it was. Who of us would not want to be thought of in that way? Maybe that is what my friend was getting at.

One of the reasons I blog is that among you awesome group of writers, artists and photographers I have found people who understand me, you know what makes me tick, I am able to dialogue with you about what is the stuff of my soul. Yes, it is enormously good and satisfying and erotic to be understood! There should be a “home-group” for folks like us! Alas, we must remain in the virtual world. I am thankful for you!

All things ambiguous inspire me to death! Everything that is hard to figure out, to understand, to put in a box, that has no boundaries, the inexplicable, all that is bigger than ourselves, all that could be or should be or that you would want to be. A thing, place, person, situation, dimension, a sound, a color or a word that is not yet know to me that could be-that is what I dream-seek-yearn with all my self to find within to write about and/or create on canvass. Aha! “She goes too far and aims too high!”, they all would say. I say, “Nay!”

Take a look at my fourth image: “With God, all things are possible.” Yes, He created me as I am, unique, ambiguous, a little strange, sometimes mysterious, always unique. He put this desire into me and gave me a couple of gifts.

He gave you Gifts as well! I know what inspires me and you know what Blazes in yourself. Write. Create. Paint. Take amazing photographs. Oh, my friends, be inspired! You are a group of Inspire-rs! Thank you for it!

Vile or Victim

Slotted Spoon, Crystal Cracked
Visceral end, Vicious Means


Vile or Victim


Green, stems of new life?

Ah! Potion pod of death.

Purse in hand, potion in pod.

Visceral end to vicious means.


Lovely vs Lover, draped stiff.

Slotted sliver spoon, crystal cracked,

Sticky-sweetie, hughie-greenie.

Ask, Vile or Victim?



The Women of the Church

You seen her? How she dare show her witchy self in church? Sitting right up there on the front row like she somebody.

Yeah, and you seen the eyeing she got, marching in with her big bosom stuck out, head high an all. I ‘spose she think she look royal in all that purple-with that ‘nettin around her face, too.

She think nobody know that face? Every man in church and out been with her-one way or the other. Just between us, Pastor as well. It just ain’t fitt’in.

She standing there now, still pushing up, makin’ eyes at the elders. Oh, here she come out! She gonna come by!

Well, ain’t she got some nerve!

Who do she think she is?

She pass by the women of the church and ain’t even speak!

Oh Happy Day

Was she sorry? Yes. She did not regret it. Her ability to breathe was coming back. She felt like drowning. Why didn’t she run? Two minutes were light years ago. Could she change her mind?  She knew the answer. There was only excommunication without propitiation left behind.


Her Shoes

She gathered herself up into the same tangled and twisted shawl. Holding it near her nostrils as she did, a faint and haunting nostalgia drew her upstairs.

The entire day had been profitable for her. Her name was known as a result of the best show ever and the latest painting completed. The meeting with the agent now in charge of her portfolio was over. Her direction and focus was on target. A woman ahead of her time? Yes, she was.

As she climbed the last few steps, her heart and head pounded. The children would think she was crazy indeed if they knew her routines of the evening. They had been blind to who she really is-all their lives.

A need to know basis is what they called it. She often wished they could see her as she was-but they are of the future, not able to see their parents as anything but fading ghosts of their past. She understood that was as it should be.

This was a night for the past and she would have it all to herself. The closest door stood ajar, she opened it and the stool was where she left it. She realized she was humming the same tune from a night out of time and place.

From the green box she carefully took the shoes. He had them handmade for her birthday, the first time they were in Italy of soft calves leather and linen embossed with tiny bits of the things she loved.

Her size 4 foot slipped as easily as ever into them. Walking only on the carpets, she descended the stairs back to the art room.

Her “muse” with her, she began a new painting as the clock in the hallway struck 1:00 AM.


Art by Myra
                              Her Shoes