Doodle

The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.



The Muses so far and my contributions:

1. "A Random Memory" - Dark
2. "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
3. "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
4. "Omitting Your Mistakes"  - Design
5. "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
6. "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle (to deceive, or a foolish or silly person)
7. "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
8. "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
9. "Infinite Possibility" - Dream

Doodle


Dressed in somber black from head to toe, her white bread face fooled them all. She became a master at hiding all of the good stuff.


People hovered around her light like night time bugs to an open flame. Trouble was that while the attraction was there, most tried to dampen the light with buckets of water or cover it with a rusted old tin can.


They wanted to be around the her. They waited to hear what she said. They watched to see what she would come up with next. They usually had quite a wait because she concealed herself from them, playing hide and seek with them. Their nerves on edge, their curiosity aroused, they kept after her until she gifted them with odd behavior that made them feel secure in their normalness.


She had decided to be with them but never became of them. They belonged to her and despite never quite fitting in, she couldn't and wouldn't leave them. She kept her life with them in a box, wrapped in a calm blue hue that never offended except for those times when they needed a distraction. This box never touched her other boxes and they did not know of the existence of her other boxes. She hid her special boxes in a closet, buried under coats and scarves and shoes, camouflaged from their eyes by the ordinary, by her self-imposed, anti-social mask.


When no one looked, she hauled out her secret containers and tossed the contents into the air like gossamer scarves blown in the wind. She tripped out on her own to other worlds to visit musicians that jumped and gyrated on smoke filled stages, costumed actors cavorting with pierced and leashed spectators, juried painters covered in oil and rainbow colors and beatnik poets reciting in parks for change. She watched the sun rise on the Winter Solstice, collecting ocean water in green glass bottles. She collected handmade knives, danced with Colombian Indians and sipped wine with bikers.


"How was your weekend?"


"Fine."


"What did you do?"


"Nothing much."

3WT and T13 @ The “other” Chrysalis Stage