Dancing the Flame


Dancing the FlameI suppose he is that all consuming passionate affair where dancing too close to the sun is the folly of the heart. Everyone should at least have one of those. He was not my great love. True love demands nothing, is worn so comfortably one only misses it when it is gone. Nor can I simply call this lust for there is more here than flesh and bone. This desire stokes the flames, searing the edges and burning memories into your brain. Such passion can lead one astray. Perhaps that is its magic as you dance a misstep, creating a new rhythm and spin off into the unknown.

All I know is without him my life would not have been the same and with him I glimpsed what could be.

                                                                  – Rye (A Character)

*Snippet from unfinished novel in Nomad Series by Teresa Little

100 on Threshold

“My tolerance is low.” You scream in my ear, drowning out whatever resounding thought I had waiting in the wings for retort. “Do you not get that?” The snarl, ever so slight punctuated with the side glare before your eyes return to the road. I am wounded now, fumbling with the door handle. I want out. You do not see. I bite my lip, sitting quietly, mentally ticking off the exits as they pass at speeds not fast enough for me. “You sulking now?” Again that sneer, “Are you? I can take care of that.” Now my threshold is low

100 Wednesday

It comes with a hump and sometimes a bump as I try to get through a week unscathed. From work? From life? As I duck from unseen blows it is hard to tell.  Seems everyone I know faces some nameless foe. Universal forces skewed. Every day is a reminder of the one before and the promise of the one to follow.  I am weary with no get up and go. Come back tomorrow when the hump and sometimes bumps has gone its way. Or better yet, try me on a Saturday when chores and plants, beaches and music hold sway.