fictional prose: hope is the last to die

‘There was something feminine,’ she thought, ‘about wearing a dress.’

The cool breeze of spring flirted with the lower hem as it fluttered at her bony knees and her hair shoulder length flicked against her face. Her heels clicked on the slate lined sidewalk as she hummed lightheartedly a soft tune of her own bygone days. Her mind adrift in the air of the breaking weather and set free by her effeminate being.

Feeling the lightness of life for a change, she absorbed the sights and sounds of the romantic world around her freely without the juxtaposition and weight she typically was weighed down by. There was no particular reason for her freed soul other than the fact she had decidedly forgotten about the expectation of communication.

Letting go came at no cost, or so she felt. It taught her a valuable lesson in so much as she was worth so much more than having to wait, endlessly and aimlessly for something that may never come to pass in the way she anticipated it. She didn’t decide against compromise in waiting, it just happened to that reality was thrust upon her and she accepted it as being better that way.

Making her way to the riverfront, she spun herself around, light on her toes, twirling with the movement lifting her skirt high up her slender, athletic thigh as her hair flicked over her face. Her body floated, but so did her heart and mind. It was the first time in a long time she felt free. She was ready for hope, she was ready to just let go as her humming continued to allow her skip along.

‘for all of us who would still try, it is hope that is the last to die’ she began to sing aloud. *

But it was more than try in this new found footloose attitude inspiring her. There was something about the city. There was something about the aura. There was something about the situation. She was ok with not going back and revisiting, if at least for tonight. She was ok with knowing, she wasn’t the same as who she was then. she was ok with knowing she’d be someone different tomorrow. And, that final part was what truly inspired her.

One cannot maintain who they are longer than the moment in which they attain an understanding of who they are. Each instance, each moment, each circumstance changes who we are. It is only hope, for something different, something au courant, something aspirational that continues one to strive forth to tomorrow. She was there.

She knew her worries were behind her, at least for now, and smiled to herself satisfied in as much. The smile was big and glowing, her teeth showed for a change as she almost giggled letting it come though. Her heart raced, her feet felt even lighter than before and she lifted herself over the railing next stone wall next to her and up onto the railing.

She fumbled briefly in her little purse and pulled out both a small camera and a pack of cigarettes. Across the river the moon was painting the countryside with a white halo of light. The tree-lined hills glowed with a picturesque basking of a veil of pale white light. Capturing the moment in her mind, she brought the camera eyepiece to her blue-green doe eyes and attempted to replicate it in the lense of the devise. Snapping the picture, she set the camera back into her purse and slid herself over the soft stones under her draping her skirt over her knees.

She slipped a cigarette out of the pack and riddled with it between her fingers before flicking a match out of the book slightly and bending it behind the pack. Striking the head between her thumb and forefinger she lit with seeming ease and bought it masked in her other palm to her lips now cradling the butt end of the paper. It lit with a short breath inwards and immediately she drew it in while setting one hand behind her to carry her weight.

Admiring the moonlight glistening off the swollen spring river the bridges spanning it were like glitter in the distance.

* based on quotes from most precious blood

Advertisements

About thedoormouse

I am I. That’s all that i am. my little mousehole in cyberspace of fiction, recipes, sacrasm, op-ed on music, sports, and other notations both grand and tiny: https://thedmouse.wordpress.com/about-thedmouse/
This entry was posted in prose and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s