Two small Eerie Ones (1 of 2)


(Credit: Luke Braswell on Unsplash)

The painting reminds me of the Mona Lisa.

A woman sits in the foreground.

A smeared landscape behind her.

A slight blush in her cheeks.

She is very naturalistic.

I have heard that some people do not like pictures like the Mona Lisa.

They are bothered by how the eyes seem to follow one around.

However, the eyes in this portrait do not follow me anywhere.

They only follow my sister.


Animal Person


She was an animal person.

She hissed like a cat when she was angry and moved like a snake through crowds. She ate nuts like a squirrel, sometimes even hiding them around her flat. She could move her head independently of her shoulders like an owl, and often did so when listening to long stories. Her sneeze sounded like an elephant trumpeting.

She wolfed down meat in quantities that would fit a lion, and besides that and nuts she only ate a little bit of green salad and only if her stomach was upset. She buried past times in her memory, like a dog burying bones in the garden, retrieving them later to gnaw at them for hours on end. One should think that she would get through them at some point, that they would be gnawed to bits or digested, but instead the gnawing kept them fresh and she never buried them too deep.

Inner Music

Crossroads of the World

Crossroads of the World (Photo credit: iwillbehomesoon)

There was rhythm in his steps as he walked across the square. He stopped at the zebra crossing, waiting, tipping his head to one side as if listening for the tune he had been stepping out with his feet. Perhaps he found it in the milling of the crowd around him. With a smile, he took a deep breath as if there were no sweeter perfume than the symphony of car exhaust and hot dogs from the corner.

If it had been a musical, this would be where he burst into song and all the people in the square would accompany him with their choreography.

But it was not a musical, so he crossed the road, the city swallowed him and I never heard his song.

The Mountain


Credit: Ranger Rick magazine (National Wildlife Federation) / Leen van der Slik – Earth Scenes

Stone faced would be an understatement. Every crack was chiselled into his forehead and his eyes were dark holes in the rock. He could have been a statue that was never smoothed and left to the rain and frost for years before it was given a quasi life. Or he could have been a mountain that decided to opt out and leave. And he did leave many places, but it never made any impact on his facial features.

Everyone around him, dwarfed by his size, expected the earth to shake with each of his steps and not only because of his size, he seemed heavy as lead.

It was only when a little boy ran up to him and asked for a piggyback that he finally cracked a smile.

A Portrait of an Unknown Number of Faces


I never thought the sight of disembodied hair ...

Change (Photo credit: rockygirl05)

The parting of her hair depended on how it settled when she came out from the shower in the morning. Sometimes she would preach passionately on some large subject and when asked about it later, shrug her shoulders. It was ordinary for her to change her clothes more than three times a day.

She was a ray of sunshine one moment and a snowstorm the next. Small children had trouble counting her faces.

The only thing constant about her was change, and she always went where the wind took her.

One thing she never did was complete her stories and her life became one long row of beginnings.

Dreams of Destroying Dreams

The Knight Errant. "The distressful maide...

The Knight Errant. “The distressful maiden has been despitefully used by robbers, who have been dispersed by the gallant knight.” (From the Tate Gallery) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

She dreams of delight.

The delight of destroying the delirious damsels who don their distress like a distracting dress to draw the beaus in at dusk.

Disdain is all she has to offer them, disdain and death, and definitely, she says, their destiny will drag them down before long despite their self-deception.

Some might discuss this desire of hers for the despair of a great deal of dames. Some might deem it distasteful or despicable, dreadful even, but she could not be more disinterested in their discourse if they were dust bunnies in the dark corners of her attic.

Deeming her desire appropriate does not make a difference in her eyes which she deigns not let fall on anything less than a deity. Her decision to dash their delusions depended only on what she describes as: ‘her decency’.

She will never declare defeat.



Prim clockwork of a wristwatch, watchmaking ex...

Clockwork (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Her nose was like a small beak, not in a charming way. She never took any pictures of herself.

When someone talked to her she tipped her head to one side like the hand of a clock moving into a new position, and she listened, or at least she heard what was said and could repeat it exactly if asked to do so. Sometimes she would whistle fragments of old nursery rhymes during the conversation.

She made pocket watches of silver and bright steel with movements precise as the clockwork that was given life by her fingers. She always whistled while she worked.

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