writing

Swans in the Mist – Part Two

Charlotte startled herself awake. She rubbed her eyes and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. The walls were made of wood logs. The crackling fire in front of her looked unreal, no wood, no flame, just warmth, a glowing light and a tinny sound.

She sat up and realized her clothes had been changed. Some sort of odd tartan patterned button down in what looked like a dressing gown.

“Oh good. You’re awake!” a sweet voice spoke to her from behind. She was startled to hear another person’s voice, full of a strange drawl. “Henry, she’s awake!” she called out. “Here dear, have some tea. I’m Sarah,” she stated as she sat in the neighboring chair, handing her a cuppa with cream and sugar.

Charlotte took a sip. The tea was way stronger than she was used to. “Wow, what type of tea is this? How did I get here? Where are my clothes?”

Sarah smiled and understood her confusion. Charlotte wasn’t the first visitor they had entertained. “First, dear, what is your name? Then I’ll answer all the questions I can.”

“My name is Charlotte. Now, answer my questions please!” Charlotte looked down, then felt her left thigh. Sarah saw her reach for her dagger.

“Hi Charlotte. My name is Sarah. Don’t worry first of all. Your dagger is safely stored, for all of our safety. I found it when I unraveled your tattered dress from your legs. The fabric was wrapped around your leg quite tight and we were concerned it would harm you. Unfortunately, your skirt will not be salvagable. Your blouse and bloomers are in the wash.” Sarah drew out the word wash, it sounded more like warsh. “Don’t worry, Henry turned around. He didn’t see anything. We girls need to stick together.”

Charlotte was apprehensive, but Sarah seemed genuine. Sarah was dressed simply, some sort of soft clothed shirt and dungarees, nothing Charlotte had ever seen a woman wear. Sarah seemed to be in her forties, grey streaks ran through her dark curly and short hair.

“As for the tea, it is a Chai Latte with vanilla. Do you like it?”

Charlotte smiled, “It is more flavorful than what I normally drink.”

Sarah flashed a knowing smile. “And, to how you got here…we are not sure. We found you out by Cygnet Lake. You were passed out on the bench and looked to be in rough shape. We brought you home to help.”

“Home? My family owns the land in this area, acres of it. Are you one of our neighbors?” Charlotte grew confused.

Sarah smiled faintly. She hated this part of discussions with their visitors. She needed backup to help Charlotte understand. “Henry, could you join me please?”

The clunk of boots came down the hall. Six-foot three Henry entered the room. Charlotte stood and turned to greet him. In front of her stood a handsome man in his forties with short graying hair with her father’s face.

writing

Swans in the Mist – Part One

Charlotte stood in the middle of the sprawling garden of her family’s country home, looking over the small fountain’s flowing water. The smell of jasmine, lavender, and roses filled the air. Charlotte tugged at her bodice; its boning digging in to her waist. Her flowing skirt of silk brocade floated out over her bloomers. She never enjoyed wearing formal dresses and didn’t understand why it was so necessary, especially when they were not entertaining.

She spied a small orange butterfly and walked towards it, around some rose bushes and other shrubs. Why couldn’t she be free like her little visitor? She twirled the neck tie of her blouse. Oh, how she longed to be free of all her family’s expectations. Currently they were trying to match her, and she was tired of meeting suitors who didn’t suit her at all.

The butterfly floated towards an arched pathway. Two cement swan planters sat at the entrance, full of blooming flowers. Charlotte followed the butterfly down the path. She had never been this way, and looked forward to a new discovery and a distraction for herself.

As she walked the trail, a light mist started to fill the floor. An owl cried out in the distance. The noises from the forest frightened Charlotte. She reached through a pocket of her outer skirt and felt for her dagger strapped to her left leg. She learned to protect herself growing up, there were too many rogues willing to kidnap and harm members of her family. She felt the cold steel hilt; it calmed her.

She continued down the path. Fallen branches tugged at her heavy skirt. One snagged it, ripping a small patch of the deep red fabric. Her boots peeked out from the hem of her skirt. A cobbler made them to her specifications, brown with crossing straps, and tall enough to cover her calves, to just below her knees. They protected her legs from the scratching undergrowth of the trail.

As she continued to walk, she lost her footing and slid down an embankment. The only thing stopping her from falling into the ravine below was her skirt which had become entangled on twigs and branches. She dangled briefly, reaching for a nearby tree trunk and struggling to get her footing. Finally, she found a hold to pull herself up, but her snagged skirt would not let her move further. At least she could now firmly stand without slipping.

Luckily, her left hand was free. She reached for her dagger, pulled it out, and began slicing away at the silk. Her mother would be furious, but which was more important — her dress or her life? Finally, she freed herself and climbed up onto the tree trunk.

The trunk spanned the ravine, but Charlotte had lost her sense of direction during the fall. She saw two trails, one on each end as she sat on the trunk. She decided to take the closer one as that seemed to be the correct one. Carefully she traversed the trunk and stepped back on the trail.

With her skirt in tatters, and the bodice still digging in, she took her dagger and slid it under the strapping in the bodice. Her maid had tied the strapping in such a way she could not get out otherwise. Finally, as the straps loosened, she took in a deep breath and her blouse floated away from her skin, allowing her to relax, and the bodice fell to the forest floor.

She turned in the direction she believed to be back home. The trail continued to turn, but did not seem familiar. Finally, in the distance, she noticed an arched opening. She picked up her pace, ready to be home. But, when she reached the opening, home was not what she saw.

Her jaw dropped. Before her was a lake, covered with mist. Swans floated nearby. By the lake was a small bench. She sat down to take in the view and to rest up before heading back up the trail. As she watched the swans, her eyes grew heavy and she succumbed to slumber.

Two shadows in the form of a woman and a man approached the bench. The woman checked Charlotte’s pulse and alertness. She was completely out, but alive. The woman nodded her head at the man. The man slipped his hands under Charlotte’s back and knees, picking her up, and holding her close to his chest. The shadows then disappeared back into the mist with Charlotte in tow.

writing

Shimmering Aurora

Her boots crunch in the early Spring snow as she traipses along the trail. The sun glistens off the crystalline surface; the reflected light plays with her eyes.

A pulsing glow shines ahead. She steps towards the light, believing it to be some beacon, perhaps dropped by a fellow hiker. She stoops down, resting her knee in the cold snow.

Slowly, hers eyes adjust to the light and she sees delicate flower petals in the shapes of hearts, iridescently glowing in white with sparkles fresh from a rainbow, around a vibrant teal blue pistol. A small style of purple protrudes from the center, topped with a golden stigma.

She sighs from the beauty and she inhales the sweet fragrance which reminds her of warm tropical weather, a hint of coconut and banana. The heady odor is strong for such a diminutive flower. The blossom sits aloft a small tube like stem with a single broad leaf rising from behind it, protecting it from the elements.

What an amazing find! I think I will call it a Shimmering Aurora Fosteriana Tulip.

Fictional flowers are fun, don’t ya’ think?

@LadyJabberwocky – thanks for the prompt!

poetry, writing

Happy Place

Finding my happy place is never hard, but I just need time to get there, even if it is only in my mind. Anywhere in nature will do, the mountains, the beach, trails along a lake, a garden or some other beautiful place. Today I highlight one of my favorites, the beautiful white sand beaches on the West Coast of Florida.


The wooden bridge creaks under my sandaled feet.

Weathered and aged, I remember when it was new.

I step out of my sandals and onto the sand,

walking towards the turquoise waters.

Sea grasses and sea oats line the path of pure white,

as if it were a passageway to another world.

A gentle breeze lifts up dragonflies flying in the wind.

The air is salty on my lips, the sand is soft powder on my feet.

I dip my toes into the gently lapping waves.

It transports me to a place of calm; I finally start to breathe.

April 20, 2021~DRM~


Please visit my poetry page throughout the month for all of my poems for April: https://dawnreneewrites.com/?page_id=1378

#NationalPoetryMonth

poetry, writing

Sword-Bearer

I have been drawn to daggers ever since I walked through a store in Downtown Disney, before it was Disney Springs, back in the 1990s. I own none, but I keep looking to find the perfect one some day. Until then, my Wonder Woman sword letter opener will have to do.


The cold steel hilt fits perfectly in her hand.

Its curved cross-guard forms

gracefully around her grip

as if it were made specifically for her.

The hilt holds a moonstone on the pommel,

surrounded by rubies and aquamarines.

The etchings in the grip gleem against grey steel,

swirls upon swirls, a thing of beauty, with

symbols she does not understand.

She is drawn to it all the same.

April 19, 2021 ~DRM~


Please visit my poetry page throughout the month for all of my poems for April: https://dawnreneewrites.com/?page_id=1378

#NationalPoetryMonth

poetry, writing

Sunny Natured

Yellow flames fly out from her center

reaching towards the blue sky above.

Gently she sways in the warm spring winds

without a care in the world.

She dances with her friends in the field,

nourishing the bees and lady bugs alike.

She grows in the sun all the days long,

until she grows heavy with seeds,

and takes her final bow.

April 18, 2021 ~DRM~


Please visit my poetry page throughout the month for all of my poems for April: https://dawnreneewrites.com/?page_id=1378

#NationalPoetryMonth

writing

Beach Mornings

I believe the best time to walk the beach is when a sliver of the moon shines brightly. The stars are twinkling remnants of the evening. The waves are crashing on the shore, blowing you a kiss and bringing peace you can only find from within.

Dawn breaks and the sky turns into pinks, blue and purple. The waves magically calm down, the rhythm slows as the sun approaches. Slowly one begins to see the shells scattered along the shore brought in overnight by the tide.

Birds dance along the waters edge looking for their breakfast.

The cafés scattered along the beach turn on their lights waiting for patrons.

Early-morning walkers stroll along the sand gathering their thoughts for the day. One must wonder if they do this every day or if they are on a break from their lives.

The breeze is cool as it hits my face. The sky is getting lighter. Along the shore are shells so beautiful waiting to be taken home by the next person walking by. The day begins.

poetry, writing

Survival of the Keen



Streaking light illuminates the night, revealing clouds in the sky.

The world tilts sideways and the stars spin above.

The ground shakes, water sloshes in my cup.

Uneasiness underfoot as the earth

gives way, swallowing me up.

Landing in a cavern filling with mud

in the distance, another thud.

Clawing our way out from the muck,

the sky above collapses, the cavern goes dark.

The world outside ends, but we are still alive.

If only we can find each other, we might survive.

April 16, 2021~DRM~


Please visit my poetry page throughout the month for all of my poems for April: https://dawnreneewrites.com/?page_id=1378

#NationalPoetryMont