Steph tilted his chin towards the ‘road closed signs. “While the crews worked, poor Violet tumbled off her balcony.”
Mike sighed. “Happens every summer. She’s gonna have some awful bruising. I’ve lived here most of my life, she was beautiful — used to call her Aunt Violet — but she has her vices too.” He mimed drinking from a flask.
“She has her reasons. Once, she married a lawyer in a bright yellow wedding dress. One day he left; she’s been stern since.” Steph shook his head. “I remember as a kid, she gave us Hershey kisses.” He stretched his arms. “It’s a sad thing but best get back; my wife has dinner on.”
Mike spoke as he turned from his neighbour. “Violet will be fine. Maybe she’ll stop drinking home brew, discover that she’s got lots of time before her.” Stephen shrugged; the two neighbours walked up the porch stairs to their respective homes.
“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.”
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to “write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.” The corresponding GoodRead’s Author’s Quote for the A to Z Challenge, begins with the letter I. Thanks toNEEKNERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menageriewho provided the wonderfully creepy photograph.
“If I’d been born a ghoul, I think I would’ve killed people. I just happened to be born a human. That’s the only reason why I’m allowed to live a moral life.” ― Sui Ishida
I knew her as a little girl,
Though others thought her odd.
She had that “something” about her,
People either loved or abhorred.
At first, I thought, she was enormously strange,
But her quirks endeared me to her.
She protected me from those cruel girls,
One smile from her, they stumbled away on their heels.
She had shocking violet hair on one side,
She was never quite a blond.
Always experimenting with new looks,
Trying to glean from her appearance,
Who she was inside herself.
Her eyes a brilliant cornflower blue glimmered,
When some person made her enraged.
Her friends all knew some stupid student,
Would soon regret their actions;
She only had to smile.
And some bullies face turned violet, rouge, or primrose.
My friend was odd but lively,
Never afraid to do anything.
Dragging me along, to be a part of her drama.
Of her wicked practical jokes,
Others whispered she was a bit ‘Tim Burton,’
Calling her the ‘corpse bride.’
But she would always smile,
In a way that scared many,
Who never knew the truth about her —
She was passionate, kind, and loyal.
If you could get past her walls, her insecurities,
She was most lovely and grew to be a beauty.
Her hair still half-purple — it was her thing.
How we knew her for her.
Her terrifying smile gleamed,
She could now afford braces,
For teeth that had scared everyone.
And when the braces disappeared,
Her teeth stood in straight white rows.
Her grim frown had turned forever upside down,
She was no longer that weird girl.
Though there was still ‘something’ about her;
Strange became a talent, something sought after,
When she transformed into a swan.
She became a cut diamond, no longer rough, she was —
Thanks to the lovely and gracious Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW this last week.
Violet read the letter her daughter had sent her in disbelief. To fathom a girl of Elizabeth’s quality of breeding would do this to her family was unimaginable.
Harsh Victorian society could never know the truth of what Elizabeth had done and Violet wasn’t sure she could bear to keep in contact with her daughter.
She would focus on her other children. Violet’s sons had married well. Three of her daughters were also married suitably and having more children. Her two youngest daughters were courting wealthy gentlemen.
Elizabeth if not cut-off from her family, could ruin them all. Violet reread part of her daughter’s letter once more in disgust:
“Did you know Mama, there is such thing as a circus? Freaks of all kinds, but I love them because they’re genuine, not like the society you so desperately try to trap me in. Years of dance lessons have left me flexible. I pirouette far above the ground and dance in the air; I ride the elephants.
It’s amazing travelling the world and I won’t be returning to London, except for an occasional visit of course. I’ve married one of the men who runs the circus. He is like me, gentry who has run away from a society of judgement. I love you and hope we can write, but I can’t be the woman you want me to be. . .”
Sally and Georgia were at the local museum. The museum had an exhibit on colour psychology that both girls found fascinating.
They paused at a large diamond-like structure made of hard plastic magenta. “What’s this?” Both girls said.
“It looks as if it could be a pensive from Harry Potter,” Georgia said. “The sides of the diamond could open up and you could dip your head in.”
Sally rolled her eyes, “I don’t think that has anything to do with colour psychology. I read that Magenta is made of both red and violet. It has the ‘passion, power, and energy of red [but is] restrained by [violet’s] introspection and quiet energy.’ ”
“Interesting,” Georgie said reading the same plaque. ” Magenta is a colour concerned with ‘change and transformation. [It releases] old emotional patterns [which] prevent personal and spiritual development. [Magenta] aids [people] moving forward.'”
“Do you honestly think that’s true?” Sally asked.
“Well it is true people are drawn to certain colours for specific reasons. Sometimes it’s preference, other times colours help fulfill an emotional need for peace or something more colourful and bold,” Georgia remarked.
A preteen boy passed by the women gazing at the diamond. “Why the hell is there a pink diamond here? Who cares about colours anyways,” he said to his Mom who gave him a reproving look.
The women peered at the boy. “It’s Magenta,” Sally said. “Not pink, pink has no purple or blue in it; it’s a tint.”
” Oh Sally, it’s shattered! I told you to never touch the ballerina.” Violet held back tears as she reprimanded her daughter. She couldn’t believe Sally, who was thirteen, would break the porcelain ballerini.
Sally knew she shouldn’t have touched the ballerina. ” I only wanted to feel it because Great-Great-Grandma probably held it. You told me stories about her, but you never let me hold the ballerina.” Sally explained.
Violet understood, when you touched an object from a cherished dead relative, it connected you to them. “It’s alright. I love you always and forever, more than any heirloom,” Violet told Sally hugging her.