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

The Academy for Wayward Free Spirited Girls


From a young age I was taught to hide my inquisitive and curious mind. To talk less and smile more. To play the demure woman.
From the same age I was scolded daily for failing. Questions fell out of my mouth at the drop of a hat. I gainsaid adults if they were wrong. I read every book that crossed my path.
Even before my debut into polite society my parents despaired of my chances of finding a husband.

They were right. None of the old families could ever accept such an unconventional girl. So I got dubbed a spinster at sixteen. Relegated to keeping house for my family.

I was bored out of my mind. My only solace the poetry I wrote at night in the inglenook. I started to think about suicide. That would fit a hysterical woman. Wouldn’t it?

As I walked the cemetery deep in thoughts of death. I stumbled upon an old Lady.
She looked me over. Then said.
– Dying is easy young one. Living is harder. Come with me and I’ll show you another way!

I hesitated. Then thought. What do I have to lose?
I followed her to an overgrown mansion at the edge of town. 

There she introduced me to her wards. All girls and women. All behaving contrary to the proscribed rules. The old Lady smiled.
– I’m always looking for a mind at work. For girls who won’t be quiet. Who questions the rules. Who think for themselves.

I just stared in amazement. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Of course I wanted to come.
My father was reluctant, but the old Lady’s power of persuasion was the wiliest I’ve ever seen.

So I took my place at the Academy for Wayward Free Spirited Girls.
Given free rein to think and feel, I realized I never wanted a man at all. I wanted only the soft touch of a woman. The old Lady smiled and nodded.
– I knew you were one of us!
– But it’s a sin! I blurted blushing.

She laughs a full-throated unashamed laugh.
– Love doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints.

History however has its eyes on us.
Waiting for us to change the world.

©RedCat


I was a bit surprised when I realized my muse had decided upon another visit to the inglenook. This time we got the backstory.  

The first time she showed up with her forbidden poems was in Inglenook Dreams, then a Gothic Christmas Carol, and Submissive Embrace.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #59: Wait For It over at Poets and Storytellers United.
For this week’s prompt, we have five lines from the musical Hamilton to inspire our writing:

“I’m looking for a mind at work.”

“History has its eyes on you.”

“Talk less. Smile more.”

“Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder.”

“Love doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints.”

We don’t have to use the exact wording, which I haven’t. I have however incorporated ALL of them in my 369 word long story. 

Click here to read other stories by me.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

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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