With Death comes Freedom…

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A short-short story…Freedom
He was a young man, bitter with his life and he did not suppress his tongue, life was arguments and questions. He needed no prompting; his waking hours seem devoted to causing weeping. He rarely laughed; he had a skill for creating pain, even in his passionate moments. His joy was to reign over his human possession, his wife. She would cease to have a will of her own, she was afraid and she obeyed.
To serve, to have no mind of her own, she too thought he owned her. Women were mistresses of his heart, yet there was no freedom for his own wife. She was not his equal, when he was with her his words brought new-bleeding to her heart. He was only satisfied when he drew blood, his appetite for hurting never ceased.
Their vows he had broken thousands of times. His mouth foul and dishonest, an adulterous heart beat within his broad barrel chest. The past, his youth, his suffering, maybe at the hands of another. Had this brought him to this day? He was not true or kind; he felt no shame in the bruises he left behind. Among those who knew him, he could do no harm; these people did not know him.
She had not asked for pearls or rubies, and she did not ask that her blood be shed. His moods released terror in his path, and his wife lay like twisted metal after it had met with deadly winds. She felt no worth, or equalities, only the wrath of his sickly attempts to have her go mad.
His affections never tender. His wife like a lamb at the altar of his desires. Spirits sought her, he kept them at a cold distance, and it was he and only he that owned her. The scars of battle went unseen, she was a caged animal. His victory did not make her weak; her bosoms may belong to him as he drank from the fountain of her youth. Her discipline held by grace, she vowed to never give in to the bond he commanded.
She tore loose from those bonds screaming, “Your fist no longer stings, my stomach no longer will live in knots, and my body will no longer be confined. Your torture inflames my spirit; I no longer cringe in shame. I will no longer suffer the pain; I will no longer live in shock or fear. My heart breaks, God did not design for it to be this way.”
She asks herself did my torturer have a soul; did he take an oath with the Devil? She did not weep, she did not cry, she did not show fear, “It is the last time,” she thought. She was not aware of the time that he poisoned her, but she knew now that she was going to die. He would never let her leave him, with her face covered with weeping water, one could barely hear her moans, and she could not escape the tragedy of her life. She will fall into a sleep from which she would not wake. Her final thought danced across her dying mind finally, she was free.

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

Author’s Books On Amazon…
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Black Feathered Angels…

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Black Feathered Angels…

I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My unstinted memory will not bury them so deep that I cannot bring them to the surface in a moment’s notice.

In the deep recesses of my mind, I see a small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field. All memories from my early days.

I see death, going down a road moving away from the weathered house of worship, a wagon pulled by six black horses, followed by black feathered angels. No longer will the water beneath the Birch taste fresh and cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks embrace warm flesh.

I relive a sad memory, my great-grandmother’s heart has been silenced, and the rocker on the porch stilled, no hand wave’s goodbye anymore. In a cobwebbed corner of the room where she slept, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby mirror. Everyone we love soon leaves us.

Sitting on the steps of that old weathered church, I have but one memory and that childhood is dead.

 

©2018elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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Study the Universe with open eyes…

 

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In anticipation of journeys end the soul shrouds itself in love as it travels through the rampant winds of unknown tomorrows aware of paths leading into happiness or sorrow.
Created within a universe filled with mystery, if life beyond the grave is what we believe why in death do we grieve? As children, our lives are open to the wisdom of those who would be our caretakers; we have faith that they are wise decision makers.
If we believe that our souls descended from that mysterious place beyond the universe created by a loving entity; then must we accept as truth the promise that love will surround us for all eternity?
We struggle as young adults to find our way through life while it is someone else’s beliefs that we are taught to disagree we soon find that this battle of one’s freedom in self-belief is one that is not easily fought.
Fighting against rule makers is a waste of time; their beliefs are set in stone and to change them is impossible as they shut their eyes and close their minds. As childhood and youth fades away it leaves a confused soul, holding onto the crumbling pages filled with knowledge and truth never told.
The desire for serenity in our hearts comes alive as we study the universe, life’s forces with open eyes; love and truth are never far apart.

 
©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Life’s Seasons…

 

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Black Wing Dragonfly by Elizabeth Ann- Watercolor-2010

 

 

Life’s Seasons…

Making yourself live without contact with others,

you are doomed. Like the flowers of summer

without human contact, the soul may cease to bloom.
Time and stillness may be an important need; to

reject sharing life with others, may be the greatest

form of greed. Purpose has its seasons, life follows

a well-planned path; your journey has a reason.
Clearing the mind and restoring the spirit will smooth

any rutted road; listen, there is a plan of how your life

should unfold. You may be on the right path today; the

journey may seem rough, the essence and energy of your

spirit will find the true way.
“Gratefulness, awareness and God’s grace is woven within

the fabric of your being for a reason. Devote today to

discovering your true self create your own season.”

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

Rise and Kill the Beast…

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Rise and Kill the Beast…

 

She woke, rising from her bed; the next stop in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. My God, she thought there in the mirror was an old woman thin lips, long gray hair, crevices lining her face. She watched the face turn pale, fear rose from the pit of her stomach closing off her breath. Suddenly she grasps the sides of her face stretching her cheeks upward until the face was smooth. When had this happen, it was her face in the mirror! Was it during the dense darkness of the night that this happen? She open her mouth to say something, the words’ fell upon her ears anxious, a sham, her heart beat faster and fear hung in her mouth like hot lava. What is next, hopelessness, death? This is the stage in life that people pray to their God for their sins, or whatever they have done wrong, the end could be near, was this fear.

 
Where did the time go, the long dark braids, the nimble fingers and graceful body? The body that played tennis, rode a bike, skied over rough waters, time was so short. She was a person that shields her spirit from the darkest, deepest pits of the Hell and learns to tolerate life. Someone, whose body gave birth, lived with the Devil’s own spawn until her escape. The one who refuse to cry or shrivel in fear as she waited for the feel of a fist.
Someone who waited for the long fingers to clutch around her neck, then in the light of day hide the truth and lies, live in mystery so no one would know. She trembled but let out no sign of fear. The body allows tears to fall after the evil thing had gone away. She tried to flatten herself upon the bed made of stones, her mind fled before she could breathe the stagnant air before the extravagant retreat.

 
These pains were hard to bare, the Devil’s spawn wanted groveling, her throat already like splintered wood, why had fate brought her to this doomed place, imprisoned her to live and be lost forever. To live in torment and dire despair, her spirit continuous crawling through the fires of hell, and she wailed her doom to the pits darkness. Never knowing a peaceful life, a loving or genteel life denied. Her mind always filled with wisdom and untouched by the suffering. Sure, she was defeated, but she would someday rise and kill the Beast.

 

 

 

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

Books can be purchased at Amazon.com – Poetry, Fiction and Non-Fiction

The Certainties of Life…

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The Certainties of Life…

 

Life is an uncertain race where

most people do no more than run

in place, there can be happiness,

sadness, and around every corner

a surprise; yet hope blooms.

Life is what one must create within

their allotted space, or sit on the

sidelines and wait leaving their

journey to fate.

 
Life is not all joy floating upon the

winds of time; there are rights and

wrongs; and unknown quandaries,

setbacks, and living means moving

forward. Life quickly passes, fair and

cloudy days, laughter and tears, and

then the warmth of the sun subsides

ones fears.

 
Life may mean walking in the valleys

of despair until fate starts an upward

climb, living with happiness, or grief;

always trust the heart and mind.

 
Life lived in harmony with others,

loving, caring and expectations met;

seeds of livelihood sown, repentance

locked away for God to judge; we strive

and labor until we pass on.

 

 

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

A Second Chance…

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A Second Chance…

There are times when I am dreaming

that I believe outside my door is the

gateway to the city of doom; nevertheless

each night when I sleep I open the door

walking into another sphere of everlasting

pain, mentally and physically. No one

pushes me through the gate, I walk willingly,

and I feel confident that I can handle the

tragedy that I know will be waiting there for

me. Tucked deep inside the confidence

there is fear, within the fear there are secret

things, distrust and lies.

 
The darkness is the most evil; a blood red moon

framed by the stars hangs above me. Hearing

strange tongues frightful and shrill, filled with

anger, strikes fear into my heart. Sometimes I

weep as the outcries reach my ears, as I do not

have a stainless claim to my own life. I fear for

the souls, even the depths of hell may refuse

them and they will be lost forever in the

darkness.

 
I question is there hope with death, will we

have memories of the earth and of the lives

that remain when we are gone? The souls

that I hear are loud, their tears are blood red,

and each is crawling in vile mud. I lower my

eyes. will they have rebirth, if they lived in

blaspheming is this terrible wailing their fate.

 
A bitter flood rushed over me as each pass to

their final resting place. They seem conscious

of their nearing doom. It is in this darkness

that each was given a second chance to feel

the love of God upon their faces, they refused.

Afterwards the ground broke from beneath

their feet, and I seem to be sinking with them

to a senseless dreadful shore and I am afraid

that I will not wake from this nightmare.

 

©2018.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

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