Stardust Souls

NASA/SDO/AIA, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

We stardust souls are eternal, yet needing a flesh costume to affect and interact in the physical world. So we subject ourselves to the death-rebirth trauma of being born, forgetting most of our knowledge and wisdom in the process.

Then we grow and learn what we can in a lifetime. Laughter and joy. Friendship. Hope and despair. Love and hate. Pain and anguish.

When the flesh grows weak and old, we die and remember everything from the beginning of time. Remember the reason we undertake life again and again. Only to once again choose the flesh costume. Hoping this time we’ll be able to awaken the flesh’s animal soul enough to impart some of our wisdom. Knowing that all we can hope to become, are messengers. 

Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things.

© RedCat


Written for Prosery: Here’s the thing about existing at dVerse. Where we write prose, maximum 144 words, incorporating a line of poetry.

Tonight’s line is from a favorite poet.

“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things? – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”


The Magic Bookshop

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

I found a bookshop. The window full of fantastic drawings. The door sign read.

If you are a dreamer, come in. 
Throw doubts, rules, reason in the bin. 
Here fanciful ideas are not a sin.

Knowing Mother would disapprove, I went in.
Books everywhere. Spilling off shelves. Stacked on the floor.

– Can I help you? he an old man creaked.
– Don’t fret, he continued. 
– I’ll find the book you need in no time.
Then disappeared among the books.

He returned with a small book.
– This is for you dear. Within it you’ll find your way to happiness.
– How much? I managed.
– Oh, nothing right now. Just be sure to come back when you’ve written your first book.

Then he bustled me out the door.

I went home. The little book, heavy in my pocket.

That night I started writing, and I haven’t stopped since.

©RedCat


Written for Meet me where the sidewalk ends… this month’s Prosery prompt at dVerse. I don’t think I ever chafed so much under the 144 word limit as this time. I wanted to describe both the bookshop, the purveyor and the reaction of the I in the story to much greater detail. Well who knows, one day I might find the right reason to write a much longer tale of it.

In Prosery, we have to write prose, and incorporate a line from a poem. This time the line was from Shel Silverstein’s poem, Invitation, as published in his wonderful book, Where the Sidewalk Ends. I have never heard of him before but after reading the poems in the prompt and the 21 I found here, I now want to read everything and check if he’s been translated to Swedish so my kids can read him too.

“If you are a dreamer, come in”

Shel Silverstein

Click here to read other stories by me.


About the artist to door picture, written by David Clode on Unsplash:

My Mum, Sian Butler, has painted a series of lovely cottages, inspired by what she sees in Tasmania, but also influenced by her living in the UK years ago. They combine a mixture of techniques and textures to produce lively acrylic paintings. Sian is best known for her Australian Outback paintings (she has traveled all around and throughout Australia). Sian is very generous, and delights in sharing her paintings on the internet. She is now eighty, and continues to go from strength to strength, inspiring all those around her with both her paintings and her life.

A Dream within a Fantasy – Flash Fiction

Photo by Frank Cone from Pexels

Is this a dream? Am I dead? Have those small paper squares of my youth laid dormant in my mind?

Suddenly there’s a voice.

“Calm down. This is a dream within a fantasy. A peek behind the veil. You’ve been searching. Trying to make sense of everything. Express that which narrow minds can’t even experience. Connect with the shared unconscious. Find the reasons behind the reasons for your existence.
It’s lonely being alone in empty vastness. So I lit a spark, watched it explode into being, filling itself with beings. Until the vastness teemed with life.
Letting me know how it is to have a finite life, a body, a loving heart.”

Suddenly, sun in my eyes, my own bed. In my notebook what I wrote last night.

“I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.”

©RedCat


Written for Prosery: Possibilities at dVerse. Where we write prose with a maximum of 144 words, and incorporate a given line. Tonight that line is: 

I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.

Wisława Szymborska, “Possibilities

Photo by Alex Andrews from Pexels

A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage – Flash Fiction

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

Every evening she goes to the beach. I wonder if it’s the setting sun or the sea she beseech.
What does she hear in the sounds of the waves?
The right incantation to keep her loved ones safe?
The right offering to calm the sea?
A safe path for her sisters to flee?

A gilded cage is still a cage. However posh it looks to those downstage.
The pain, hurt and oppression happens backstage. 

However noble your birth. There’s truly just one species of humans on Earth.

Set all those princesses free. They are people just like you and me.

©RedCat


Note: For both effect and for the international women’s day (March 8th) I choose her, sisters, and princesses. But in reality both princes and princesses, and every other royal should be set free.

Photo by Jessica Cortez from Pexels

All week I’ve had this – A gilded cage is still a cage – phrase in my mind. Brought about by one of Sweden’s political pundits comments on the intervju with Harry and Meghan. She (the political pundit) commented that many people have a lot worse life situation then those two. 

And while that is a true statement. If there’s even a smidgen of truth to, for example; the comments about their, then unborn, child’s skin colour. Every caring, equality minded person out there should be outraged!

The phrase stayed in my mind for another reason though. A question that cropped up after reading the pundits comments. Would she say the same – that wealth and standing precludes you from having and/or airing grievances – if we were talking about one of the Saudi princesses

The one’s risking their lives to flee only to be dragged back and locked in very luxurious prisons. Unable to speak freely. Unable to communicate freely. Stopped from moving around freely. Denied to live freely after their own hearts and minds.

I’ve never been especially either for or against royal families. But the older I get, the more the whole thing seems like ancient ludicrous beliefs that many people would be freer and happier without.


Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.

To read other stories inspired by the photo click the frog below.

Click here to read other stories by me.


The Red Door – Flash Fiction

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

In my mailbox I find a note and a key. It seems like gibberish, until I realize it’s a rebus.

Result when seeking?
Your hair?
For ingress?

And a name, Herengracht. One of the canals surrounding De Wallen.

I take a tram to the city center. This might be a wild goose chase.

Suddenly I see a bright red door standing open. I try the key in the mailboxes.
One opens. Another note.

Over your head?

On the roof I find a table set for two.

– I thought you’d always wanted a rooftop apartment, says my lover with a smile.

©RedCat


The other day I wrote a haibun callen the Dark Stairwell, that would have fitted the image quite well. I played around with the idea of rewriting it from non-fiction to fiction. 

Then after looking at the picture again I ended up wanting to take a memory  trip to one of my favorite cities in the world. Amsterdam. A place that up to the pandemic has been my home away from home. The place I go when I need to get away and recharge. The first place I’ll visit the day traveling is possible again.

Read more about Herengracht and De Wallen on Wikipedia.

Click here to read other stories by me.

Written for this weeks Friday Fictioneers. To read more stories or add your own. Click the frog.


Pure Kitsch – Flash Fiction

Unknown authorUnknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

You can’t base it on the number sixty nine, that’s pure kitsch.
You are a raging bitch for trying to bewitch with a piece rich with sexuality.

I laugh so hard I get a stitch. Then say.
I’m a witch, my words, your dreams and fantasies enrich.
Strange, weird and twisted my niche.

Your choice is which you prefer? Campy fun, or gray squares?
I wonder what you’ll ditch.

©RedCat


Creator/Contributor: Dielman, F. (Frederick), 1847-1935 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Written for Sammi Cox’s weekend writing prompt. And inspired by the Swedish tryouts for the Eurovision Song Contest, called The Melody Festival. And that’s not ONE competition, but for the last two decades a season of six competitions.

Which is as kitsch as it gets!


Maria Innocentia Hummel, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The Rose Garden

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Waiting for sleep. For dreams. The only place I still see my love. Young and happy, as we once were. Not ravaged by age and disease. Like the day you drew your last breath.

In the rose garden we laugh and kiss. Hug and touch. Making love on soft grass beneath fragrant blossoms. I cry as we cuddle, knowing the dreams are ending. Knowing I’ll wake in a cold and lonely bed.

In the morning I find the rose garden covered in sparkling snow. Like the tears and sorrow of my dreams have fallen outside. Grief translated to shimmering ice. 

©RedCat


Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Read more stories by me here.

Click on the frog to read more stories or add your own.


The Hazel Wood

Golden Apple Tree and Nine Peahens by Arthur Rackham from the Allies Fairy Book 1916

I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head.
There I saw the day fade dead. Still a fire was in my head.
So I went to the well to quench my thirst. At the well I saw a start falling.
Burning bright as the fire in my head.

The star seemed to come down by the old orchard. I thought, a real fire will put out the one in my head. As I came to the orchard I found no fire, no smoke.
The night was silent, still.

Then the clouds broke and the full moon light fell on the most beautiful girl.
Pale as the moon, hair of sunlight, curious eyes, radiant smile.
I thought she might disappear if I breathed.

As her eyes met mine, the fire in my head settled in my heart as love.

©RedCat


Written for Prosery: The Song of Wandering Aengus over at dVerse.

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