The Smallness of Us

There are these moments when I picture myself benevolently aged, a bittersweet smile of the past playing about the crow-footed corners of my eyes.  What I wouldn’t give to have a conversation with her.  The woman who weathered storms.  The woman who brought storms.  

What would she think of me with my self-pity and social angst?  

“Child,” she would say, sipping Zinfandel through her favorite My Little Pony mug a lover from long ago gave to her, “It is not the darkness in the life of an artist that creates art.  It is the hope that the darkness will end that helps the artist create life through art.”

I would cast a side-eyed glance at her, but since we occupy the same mind and body, she would guffaw at me and kiss her teeth as she knocked back another swig.

“It’s just like that story we loved as a girl and would always cry at every time we came back to it.  You know… the one where the guy crashes his plane in the desert and meets the alien boy and he tells him this story about a fox and a rose,” she would prattle on.

“Le Petit Prince,” I’d sigh back.  “Everything that is essential is invisible to the eye.”

“Exactly. Except there are also scars the eye cannot see, but that doesn’t mean we let them pervert our heart,” she’d sagely nod in the annoying way old people do right before she takes another gulp which causes Twilight Sparkle to mock me with her smug smile.  “Like this wine.  The fruit of which is sweet from the vine but fermented can leave a bitter aftertaste both in the mouth and in the actions taken under imbibed persuasion.”  

Adding punctuation to her words, she would put the mug down and lean forward in her chair, donning the doggedness that my mother wore when you knew she was right, when you knew she didn’t bring the storm but was the storm, “We must savor the delicacies of our lives, no matter how bitter.  We must not take for granted the world within the smallness of us.”

In response to Daily Prompt: Savor
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Storm” by Free-Photos (CC0 Public Domain)

The Crimson Key

Alice cradled her head in her hands and felt the weight of it as if she were Prometheus holding up the sky.  She desperately searched her memory for who had given her the key, but she had been stuck in the cavern for three days.  Everything was fuzzy.  Through red-streaked eyes and a mud-caked face, Alice assessed her surroundings once more.

“Water, check,” her voice eternally bounced off the walls.  She winced at the shrill echo and thought it better to make a mental check list.

Water was abundant, that was given. It seeped off the walls and pooled on the floor in puddles. What about food? With the exception of the scurrying meals on wheels, there wasn’t anything readily available to eat.

The direness of the situation dawned on Alice, and anger rose in her like a tidal wave. With a heave, she threw the ruby key across the cavern.  It skipped and skittered across the glossy stones and came to lay in a pool where its steady pulse of red light served as a warning beacon to the world or to any idiot who would try to acquire it.  

Alice swallowed this burning pill, pushed herself up onto her knees, and hung her head.  Her matted hair fell in clumps around her pixie face.  Slowly she rose and planted one foot, hands folded on her knee in prayer that she have the strength left to pull herself up into humanity.  She took another step forward and found herself standing, head still hung as if in humility.

“Someone… anyone… help me,” she sobbed in resignation.

As Alice still had her head bowed, she did not notice the agency the key had gained.  It’s steady pulse had become frantic. It’s red hue had melted to blue, and it threw icy prisms that danced along the traces of water along the walls and floor.

With a deafening crack that raced around the cavern, the key’s frenetic dance stopped.  Alice whipped her head up, eyes wide, and stared at the doorway which had formed on the cavern floor.  

A small voice emanated from the crimson and cerulean entrance, “We open for the meek, the mild, the humble, the servants.  We are your inheritance if you are deemed worthy.”

Deep within Alice something stirred.  She didn’t know what lay beyond, but she knew what waited for her if she stayed.  With fasciation, trepidation, and hope for salvation, Alice bowed her head and stepped through the door.

In response to Daily Prompt: Echo
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Doors” by Qimono (CC0 Public Domain)