Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Posts Tagged ‘Catacombs

Hall of Remembrances: Divided Identities

with 8 comments

She found herself walking back to the entrance to the catacombs, taking a torch, going past the statues of Jesus, the angels and the gargoyles, wondering if she would be able to find her way back to the Hall of Remembrances.  Walking down one tunnel, Thalia came across a statue of a regal-looking cat on a tombstone. 

 

 

Oh, oh.  I didn’t come this way before.  Must have taken the wrong tunnel.  I would have remembered seeing this sleek cat.  What does it say?

 

BAST–MET

GENTLE FRIEND

FIERCE PROTECTOR

 

No date.  Wonder when this is from?  Wonder about the name—seems like an obvious combining of Bast and Sekhmet, both goddesses in Egyptian mythology, but is it?  Was Bast the name in itself or short for Bastet?  That would say a lot about the date right there.  And both gentle and fierce—how intriguing.  Well, the solid black statue doesn’t tell me why this cat was named a composite name of two Egyptian goddesses generally depicted as lionesses.

 

A faint noise coming from behind the tombstone caught her attention.  She listened, heard it again, and cautiously moved around in that direction.  She almost didn’t spot the kitten curled up on the floor, pressed against the tombstone. 

 

“Oh, how sweet.  How did you get in here?  Are you okay?”  Thalia squatted down and extended out her hand to stroke the kitten… and her hand passed tight through.  The kitten looked up at her and edged closer, obviously wanting contact.  “Why are you still here?  Did you know the cat…Bast-met?”

 

The kitten’s thoughts came through.  That is me.  I’m Bast-Met.  I’m actually the kitten who became Bast-Met.  But I’m still confused.

 

Why are you confused?  You were obviously loved by your owner.

 

Yes, I was.  But people don’t realize how important a name is.  I was confused because I was named after two different aspects of goddesses, even though both were lionesses at one time—Best and Sekhmet.

 

Lions?  I thought they were cats.

 

No.  Bast was the ancient Lower Egypt solar and war goddess and protector.  She was depicted as a fierce lioness while also associated with the sunlight so was called ‘Goddess of Fire’ or ‘Lady of the Flame.’  Later she became Bastet, her role diminishing as Sekhmet , a similar deity in Upper Egypt when Lower Egypt lost dominance in the unification of the Upper and Lower sections.  The feminine suffix of ‘et’ is the diminutive name that applies as she receded and Sekhmet rose to power.  Her gentler aspect as protector of the home and pregnant women changed as her appearance changed to a domestic cat.  Then during the times when the Greek occupied Egypt, she changed again to a goddess of the moon.

 

So Bast become Bastet and took the appearance of a domestic cat.  Why would a cat still be important?

 

Cats were revered highly because they could catch and kill threats to the fragile food supply like rats and mice and snakes.  So much so they were mummified before burial.  More than 300,000 mummified cats were discovered when Basts’ temple at Per-Bast was excavated.

 

What about Sekhmet?  Was she also a lion who changed to a cat?

 

Sekhmet was a warrior lioness goddess of Upper Egypt, the lioness being the fiercest hunter the Egyptians knew.  They thought her breath created the desert and so she was a protector of the pharaohs.  She was also a solar deity and became more powerful than Bast, so was seen as ‘The Avenger of Wrongs.’  Sekhmet was also seen as a bringer of disease as well as a healer of those diseases, with her worship centered in Memphis.  ‘She Who Is Powerful’ was depicted as a woman with the head of a lioness.  Pyramid texts themselves say the Pharaoh was conceived by Sekhmet who was the wife of Ptah, ‘The Creator.’ Other myths say she was created by the fire of Ra’s eye to use her as a weapon of vengeance to destroy men because of their wicked ways.  Sekhmet is the Goddess of the West and Bastet is the Goddess of the East.  Both are shown with heads of lionesses with Bastet wearing green and Sekhmet wearing red. 

 

So that’s why this statue has a jeweled collar of red and green gems.  A while back I even saw a refrigerator magnet with a picture like this statue on it.  Quite a contrast between being considered goddesses and being on a fridge magnet.  But why are you still here?

 

I was always confused as to who I really was and my mistress expected two different behaviors—sometimes I should be like a lioness, the aggressive war goddess, and other times I should be gentle like a healer and docile protector of pregnant women.  Mistress would encourage me to be ‘Avenger of Wrongs’ and ‘Lady of Slaughter,’ both titles of my suffix namesake.  But then would be upset when I caught a rat and brought it home to her to show I was the ‘Lady of Slaughter.’  No, now she preferred for me to be tame like the mummified cats.   

 

And all I wanted was to be me—a kitten needing to be petted and loved and let to develop naturally, not forced into predetermined roles.

 

Would you mind if I write your story down?  Because this also applies to modern day parents and children.

 

It does?  How?  I thought it was because I couldn’t talk to my mistress.

 

No.  Even when children are all grown up and can discuss issues like this with their parents, it usually doesn’t help.  Because parents who try to force children into a mold they want usually aren’t able to truly listen and understand what is being said.  Parents who listen and understand from the beginning usually tend not to force anything on anyone.  They realize each has their own way to grow into their adult selves. 

 

 

By this time the kitten was curled up in Thalia’s lap, purring as she was stroked.  She stretched out, putting her front paws on Thalia’s shoulders.  Thank you for listening and helping me to understand I was not alone in dealing with the expectations of others.  I would be verrrrry happppy for you to wrrrrite my storrrry.  I just wwwwanted to be mmmmme and not torrrrn in two diffferrrrent dirrrrections.  Can you call mmmmme Kitty?

 

 “My pleasure, Kitty.  You’re such a sweet kitten.  And your fur is so silky, Kitty.”

 

The purring increased in volume as Kitty’s substance solidified and matured.  Thalia and Kitty rubbed noses.  Then both Kitty’s purring and her body faded and disappeared as Thalia continued to stroke the empty air while thinking of an anonymous quote she had seen: “Thousands of years ago, cats were worshipped as gods.  Cats have never forgotten this.”  One more contrast.  Treated as goddesses and important enough to be preserved as mummies but now the likeness is on refrigerator magnets.  She said ‘NO’ to both aspects—she just wanted to be Kitty.

Written by thalia

August 2, 2008 at 1:09 pm

The Hall of Remembrances

with 5 comments

Come, m’lady.  The child took a step, pulling on Thalia’s hand as the others started moving further within the catacombs.  Thalia stood up, grasped the torch and followed, being led by the child who pulled ahead yet glanced back at her shyly.

 

She sent out her thought to the child.  What is your name?  A mumbled something touched her awareness.  The woman’s thought was clearer:  Later.  Just come.  We’ve waited a long time.

 

They walked in physical and mental silence, turning down one tunnel after another.  After a while, as the darkness deepened, she couldn’t help but wonder how she would return to the entrance, but figured it would happen naturally.  She thought of the stories she encouraged from hospice patients, volunteers and staff.  Of how patient memoirs were so treasured by their loved ones after the patient died, sometimes even revealing stories the loved ones didn’t know about.  She thought of how her own memoir process unearthed the web of patterns that helped clear misconceptions and resentments she had carried. 

 

Yes, we saw that in you, that which Is what we need done for us.  The man’s thought broke through her own.  Some of us have been waiting a long time to understand what happened in our lives and sometimes even in our dying.

 

Thalia felt momentarily confused.  But I record their stories before they die, not after. 

 

The woman stopped and turned around.  But you told the stories of your ancestors after they were dead.  And you’ve written poems and stories about when your loved ones appeared in a so-called “dream” and shared with you.  What is so different? 

 

Nothing, I guess.  I just never thought of this aspect until now that you mentioned it.  And never thought a walking tour in the City of Ladies would lead to this deep part of the catacombs.   I remember being intrigued by Orson Scott Card’s book Speaker for the Dead.  What a great book.

 

The woman resumed walking forward.  Just come.  You’ll see.

 

After a few more twists and turns they entered a large cavern with many, mostly marble, sarcophagus’ and statues along the walls and throughout the room.  Marble benches were scattered around.  No one else was in the place.  The trio escorted her to a bench in front of a large, ornate statue of a weeping angel. 

 

 

The little girl’s hand started trembling.  Thalia looked from the statue to the child still clinging to her hand.  Looking back at the engraving, she read: 

                                       MARIA ESTAL…   (part was missing) 

                                            9 YEARS OLD  

                                 MUCH BELOVED DAUGHTER

 

Is this your tombstone?

 

The child bobbed her head.  She seemed small for her age.  Thalia sat down on the bench and drew Maria close.  What would you like to share with me?

 

With tears running down her face, Maria’s thoughts gushed forth.  It says my papa loved me but how could that be?  When he did those things to me?  The priest said it was wrong and papa was bad.  He couldn’t have loved me.  Her weeping escalated into sobbing, so holding her and waiting was appropriate.  Finally the sobs subsided.  Then the sickness came for mamma and me.  They all said it was because papa was bad but he cried when we were sick on the bed.  Then mamma died of fever and I got worse.  Papa said he loved me but the priest said he was bad and didn’t love me.  Was I bad?  Is that why papa did bad things to me?  Is that why I died?

 

No, you were good.  Your papa did things he shouldn’t have but you were good.  It wasn’t your fault he did those things to you or that you and your mama died.  Tell me more about your papa.

 

Maria wiped her sleeve across her nose and continued.  Mama said papa had been in a war, fighting far away.  When he came home he was different.  Then there was another baby coming and papa started touching me.  Mama was busy with the baby and didn’t see.  They argued about things that happened during the war, but I didn’t understand.  There was a long pause.  Are you sure I am good and not bad?

 

Yes, I am sure.  And even though your father did some bad things doesn’t make him all bad.  His actions were bad but he could have also loved you.  And sometimes war changes people and makes them act bad.  After being away in a war you might have looked so clean and fresh that he just was glad to be home, and he wanted to be part of your innocence and freshness.  What he did was very bad, but he could still love you.  Maybe he was sorry about what he did.  Look at the weeping angel—maybe he picked it out because  it represents him weeping for what he had done.  Can you understand that?  Thalia thought of all the adults who could only see the world in black or white, and couldn’t understand shades of gray in people or allow for forgiveness.  Their anger festered for years, or even for their whole lifetime, and made their lives bitter and the lives of the people around them miserable.  They couldn’t separate the action from the person.  If adults couldn’t understand, how could a child?

 

I think so… maybe.  I’ll try.  I always thought the angel was weeping because I was so bad. 

 

No, that’s not why the angel is weeping.  We grow when we can learn to forgive.  It’s hard, but important.  Forgiveness heals us and is more important for us than for the person we forgive, but both are important.

 

Maria moved to gently touch the weeping angel and the engraving of her name and where it said she was the beloved daughter.  As she sighed, she smiled.  Thank you, m’lady.

 

No, I am not a “m’lady.”  I am just a woman on a walking tour of the City of Ladies.  Now I am not sure where I am.

 

A new-energy thought chimed in.  We will call this place the Hall of Remembrances.  Will you come back and help us tell our stories?  There are many stories here needing to be told.

 

She looked up to see many other pale figures emerging from the walls and statues, clustering around this latest thought-speaker.   He appeared to be the one with authority.  In his outstretched hand was a coin that seemed to have real substance.   Remember us! 

 

The coin was suddenly in her hand, solid and heavy.   A male head on one side and a woman standing on the other side. 

 

 

She looked at him, as he stood there with more physical essence than the others.  That’s Apollo on the one side; the muse Thaleia, as I know her, on the other.  Take this coin and remember us.  We await your return.  Others like yourself are welcome, also.       

 

I will return now and again, and perhaps others will also come to help you.  Thank you all for sharing with me and inviting me.  For now I need to return and continue the tour.  But I will be back to the Hall of Remembrances for more of your stories. 

 

And suddenly she was back at the entrance to the catacombs, coin in hand, ready for the next adventure, even as she wondered why Apollo and Thalia were on the same coin.

Written by thalia

June 25, 2008 at 1:27 am

Posted in Catacombs, Walking Tour

Tagged with ,

The Eternal Darkness…

with 10 comments

The girl slid into a deep niche as shuffling footsteps went past. She didn’t look; she knew better. It was enough to know that there was something out there and that she didn’t want it to see her. Finally the steps receded in the distance and she stepped silently out into the hallway again, brushing the dust off her clothing. Fortunately, that niche had been an old one, and the remains in it were long since dried out and crumbling. The newer ones could be a bit smelly and unpleasant.

Carefully, the girl took out a hoarded match and lit the stub of the candle she always carried with her. Shielding the tiny flame from the draft, she set out down the narrow corridor. She had a long way to go and needed to move quickly and stay vigilant.

She knew the path well; she took it almost every night. At first she had had to mark the correct corridors with tiny chalk marks, but now she didn’t need the reminders. Her feet knew the way all by themselves. The only reason she needed the light and her eyes was to watch for new obstacles and dangers that might appear. The tiny light didn’t seem to attract the creatures down here in the omnipresent darkness of the catacombs. Most of them used other senses to find their prey.

Wrapping her shawl carefully around her head and over her mouth and nose to keep out the worst of the dust and mold, she set out. The shallow niches to either side hid their contents in darkness, but the girl was not worried about those. Their residents were long dead and gone and no more worry to her. The things that concerned her out here would be wandering the same hallways she was or hiding in the deeper niches. The rooms she needed to cross were another matter.

She came to the first of the several rooms in her path. Peering around the corner into the darkness, shielding her tiny candle with her palm, she looked for tell-tale signs in the dust on the floor – new scuff marks, debris, splatters of blood or flesh. Seeing none, she crossed the room quickly, darting into a narrow crevasse on the other side. She breathed a sigh of relief; that first room was frequently occupied. More than once she had had to extinguish her flame and hide until a denizen of that room went off in search of more prey.

She listened before she continued into the small crack that led to the next corridor. Before she found this natural cave, she had had to traverse a long stretch of the catacombs that was home to quite a few unpleasant creatures – and while they were small, they were all carnivorous and attacked in packs. They were a problem in the older sections of the catacombs, like this one, where people seldom went. They avoided the newer parts.

The coast was clear, and the girl continued on. A few more bends, a small leap over a crack in the floor, and she was looking into the next room. She didn’t like this room either. It was quite old, and while the remains of the occupants had become no more than a few bones and a lot of dust long before, the spirits here were restless. All had died on gallows or gibbet or deep within the torture chambers in the dungeons of the palace. All had been high born and still been buried here rather than in a potter’s field, but all had died badly as criminals or traitors. Some of the spirits here wanted forgiveness, but most wanted revenge. A few wanted their lives back. One had tried to take her over once and she still remembered the dreadful feeling as the angry spirit of a murdering noble tried to force her out of her own body. A few others still fed on the misery and fear of living beings and these scared her the most; they would isolate her and inundate her with fearful images until all she could do was weep in a corner while they feasted. They would keep her there until she died, paralyzed with the grief or terror that they caused. There were several sets of remains in the room that bore silent witness to this. They had almost caught her one time – but almost, and only once. When she had holy water, she sprinkled it over herself before she entered the room to keep them at bay, but she had run out last week and still hadn’t had time to get any more.

This time the dash across the room did not go as it should. The girl missed seeing a bit of freshly fallen stone from the ceiling in the middle of the floor and went sprawling. Her candle-stub flew from her hand and went out as she landed on the hard, gritty floor. Immediately, she could feel the spirits converging on her prone form – some moaning and sobbing and others hissing greedily. She scrambled to her feet and fled in the direction she knew the exit had to be. She ran headlong into the wall on the far side of the room and felt her way along it dizzily until she came to the crack that she was seeking. Jamming herself through the opening with the spirits right behind her, she wiggled along until she was out of their range; they stayed close to their old bodies, bones and dust though they were. Something brushed up against her leg in the darkness, and she stifled a scream. A rat, she thought as she heard a scurrying sound. It was only a rat.

She gave the candle up as lost. Perhaps she’d pick it up another night. She wiggled down the crack in the complete darkness until she came to the next corridor and then pulled out her backup candle stub. She had learned the hard way to keep an extra one with her. One more precious match and she could see again.

She turned left at the next intersection – the catacombs to the right were flooded now, with the rains falling and the river high. She liked that route in dry weather, because it was quicker and safer.

The girl was half way done. She followed the bends and twists of this hallway, walking silently and listening all the while. A shuffling sound was coming her way and she needed to hide. The only niches here were shallow ones, bad for hiding in. She blew out the candle and pressed back against the stone shelf, trying to quiet her breathing. She realized, as the noise grew closer, that she was not hidden. Trying not to cry, she levered herself up on the shelf with the dusty bones and lay atop them. Some ribs were pushing into her back and her head was vying for space with the skull. A mandible pushed into her ear, leaving tooth marks there. The shuffling grew closer and closer. It paused by the niche she was hiding in and she held her breath. Then whatever it was grunted and shuffled on past. She let out her breath silently and waited for the count of one hundred after the sound receded before she slipped off the shelf. A bone fell off with her, and she stood frozen, listening for anything that might have heard the noise coming to investigate it. Another count of one hundred and nothing happened, so she picked up the bone and placed it carefully on the shelf with its fellows, whispering a thank you to whoever had owned those bones in life. She took out her candle and lit it with the last of her matches. She looked at the name on the plaque above the shelf and smiled – the bones belonged to a distant ancestor of her own. No wonder they had kept her safe.

Still smiling, she navigated the corridors until she came to the last room she needed to cross. This one wasn’t dangerous, it was just sad. It held the mortal remains of a large family that had died tragically in a house fire. The room was filled with moans and screams as the spirits who were unable to let go of this world relived their last tortured moments. She whispered a prayer as she crossed, to send the spirits off to the peace of the afterlife. Sometimes she thought that did some good; there seemed to be fewer spirits screaming in agony in here these days.

A quick run down a hallway that led past a sealed plague-room, where remains of plague victims lay and few sad and confused spirits still lingered, and then a wiggle through another natural crevice in the wall opposite the bricked-off archway, and she was almost through.

After a few more twists and turns of the next hallway and she was in the new section of the catacombs. It smelled a bit more in here, but the danger was less. There were still a few spirits to avoid, and a few rats darted along the walls, but the nastier creatures didn’t come here, where living people still came regularly.

The girl found a particular niche and blew out her candle-stub. Down on her hands and knees, she crawled into a small opening under the shelf and through a small tunnel. She emerged in the sewers. It was raining hard, and the water in the channel was running high, but it was cleaner than usual. Avoiding the larger puddles on the ledge, she quickly made her way to the opening closest to her home.

The girl stopped before she exited from the sewers. She looked around carefully and listened for a while. This was the most dangerous part of her trip home from work every night – the last four blocks in the pitch dark of the city night, through the narrow stinking alleyways and filthy streets of the Beggar’s Quarter. She felt safer navigating the catacombs with all their dangers than she did walking the streets here after dark. But Mother and a hot dinner waited for her and her meager wages, just a few blocks away. She took a deep breath and climbed out from the eternal night of the catacombs and sewers into the true darkness of the night time city streets.

-She Wolf © 2008

Written by Jane

June 24, 2008 at 6:06 pm

Posted in Walking Tour

Tagged with

Voices from the Past

with 8 comments

Feeling cleansed of both physical and emotional “stuff” from Dame Washalot’s Bath House, she followed the walking tour map to the Catacombs.  Most of her knowledge about catacombs was derived from movies of the 1950’s like The Robe, Quo Vadis, and Ben Hur which all portrayed early Christians hiding out and having services there.  Later, she was surprised to learn catacombs were actually pre-Christian and even pre-Roman, and were used for burials and as hiding places from persecution.  The Sumerians, Egyptians and Greeks all utilized catacombs.

  

More recently she read Internet articles about supposed inner-Earth races living underground in catacombs, caverns and tunnels.  And a Hope Indian legend speaks of a very ancient complex beneath the surface occupied by a lizard-race 5000 years ago. 

 

It didn’t help her to recall these interesting but potentially frightening ideas as she moved further into the catacombs.  Even holding the torch she had been given at the entrance near the statue of Jesus at Gethsemane didn’t help—it just cast odd shadows.    At first the walls were smooth so it wasn’t bad, but now there were cubby-holes and recesses with statues or sculptures within, to which the flickering light added a macabre element.  As she approached each item, she thought they were moving.  As she peered closer, she could then discern they were just statues of angels and people. 

 

I guess there are people buried here or maybe just their ashes are buried here.  Reminds me of that Reader’s Digest article speaking of how the carbon can be extracted from the cremated remains of a loved one, and with heat and pressure, can be made into a real diamond.   What an odd line from the CEO of that company: ‘It isn’t in memory of a loved one, it is the loved one.’ 

 

Oh, what’s that?  Looks like it’s moving.  She crept closer.  It’s a gargoyle, and here’s another.  Why would they be in here?  Maybe to protect the remains, as they usually are supposed to be ugly to scare anyone unwanted away.

 

Something flew at her out of the dark; she ducked as another something flew past.  Bats! Ugh! They must be roosting further within since I haven’t seen any guano so far.   

 

 

Now it was totally dark, except for the sputtering torch.  She approached a marble bench in front of a sarcophagus within a recessed part of the wall.  Tired, she placed the torch into a holder and sat down.  I can’t walk all day the way I used to.  Probably not too many years before my ashes will be placed somewhere.  Would like for them to be scattered in various places but what if they were in a place like this?  Maybe I’m passing or looking at my own burial from another time—the circle of time.

 

She felt very much at peace here, surrounded by the remains of many people, deep within the earth—no noises of cars, power tools, construction, cell phones going off annoyingly or people having to talk all the time.  Silence—stillness…  She closed her eyes and meditated, sinking further into her center.  First the pinprick of light in the darkness, then the starburst.  She drifted out of her body, moved through the packed earth, into the air, above the city.  She could see-sense for miles.

 

peaceful… but not the time to continue…time to return

 

With that thought she moved back into her body, but aware her physical body was now surrounded by other bodies.  Keeping her eyes closed, she reached out her awareness to assess who was there.  Feels fine.  Good energy.

 

She opened her eyes.  A child was standing in front of her, looking at her.  A woman on one side, an elderly man on the other.  She nodded in respect to each translucent person—each smiled in return.  She knew words were unnecessary.

 

Hello.  Who are you?  How can I help?

 

The woman’s thoughts were clear: Please, help us.  We stay here now, close to what had been our bodies.   But we need to have our stories told.

 

The elderly man nodded as the little girl stroked her hand.  He then thought: There are others, too, needing to find the meaning in the lives they lived.  By telling their stories you will discover the underlying pattern and meaning, and reveal it to each of us.  We can sense you’ve done it for others, could you do it for us?

 

I would be honored to tell your stories.  I’m sure each one would be as interesting and meaningful as each person is unique, no matter how boring they think their life is.  I’m Thalia.  Glad to meet you…

 

Written by thalia

June 22, 2008 at 12:55 pm

knock, knock

with 4 comments

Doorways

Catacombs of the mind we wander
We ponder and move on
But the chill has set in
And bones feel that chill
Seep in

Catacombs of the soul we dance
Losing our way in the tunnels
We can’t ask for a cheat note from
A web site here to guide us out

Catacombs of the body
All fall away into dust
And line the undergrounds
Of Paris

“Knock knock”says the body to the mind
And the mind replies “let me out!
Let me out of the catacomb”

The soul watches out with
A wry grin
And bones feel the chill seep in.

© Gumbootspearlz all rights reserved

Written by June

June 18, 2008 at 6:04 am

Posted in Catacombs, Walking Tour

Tagged with

once upon a time…

with 6 comments

It was cold and dark in the catacombs, quiet except for my own footsteps and the skittering of small creatures across the rough stone below. The walls were slightly damp, the smell of must strong. As I walked further into the shadows, cobwebs snagged at my face and I pulled them off. I looked down and saw the remains of what might have been an ancient mosaic floor. Black, red, and white tiles made up a design, but it was hard to tell what the picture might have been.

I did not like it here and wondered what Enchanteur expected me to find. What is this place? I whispered.

“It is the Slush Pile, where rejected stories go to die,” said a small voice.

“Who – who are you?”

“I am a were-pen. See the shining point of light on that wall? That’s me.”

“You can speak?”

“I am a voice in your head, but you are not mad. It’s a Lemurian magic. Call it your inner voice, the writer within, seeking expression.”

“I knew writers were crazy; this confirms it,” I admitted. “But we’re mostly harmless. So if I have a talking were-pen as my guide, I guess that’s OK.”

The were pen bobbed in agreement. “It is a deep, dark magic, like bibbety-bobbity-boo. Toss some basil in the air, and presto-chango, we can advance the plot!”

It made a funny, clicky noise. I didn’t know were-pens could snicker. “You’re kind of sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“I am *your* inner voice, afterall.” The pen top clicked mischievously and I swear the were-pen was winking at me. “Call me 86.”

“Let’s recap, 86. I am talking to a were-pen in the dead stories file. So the contents of these catacombs are what, unpublished stories?”

“Not even that. They are half-finished stories. Plots that twisted and turned up their toes too early. Characters only half fleshed out. Mummified mixed metaphors. Paragraphs piled up like bodies for the charnel house. Adjectives tossed overboard. Ransacked rhymes. Transitions that never made it from one paragraph to the next. Half-done hooks. Wasted words. These are the stories of the damned, that have no voices, until a writer tells them.”

“I thought this was a ladies’ literary walking tour. Where’s Enchanteur? What does this creepy place have to do with me?

The were pen swung above my head like an inky sword of Damocles. “Once upon a time…”

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 17, 2008 at 8:33 pm