Meet Me Monday: Painted Man (Billy)

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Meet Painted Man, the silent member of Aunt Agatha's traveling night carnival. Born mute and abandoned at a Civil War orphanage after the death of his parents, Billy strikes out on his own once a tragic turn of events at the orphanage sends him and two other boys into hiding. Once he runs into Aunt Agatha, he never looks back. And, instead, grows into Painted Man, whose unspoken truths find their own way to be heard.

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Come see the Painted Man. The Painted Man has stories of his own to tell, stories that have no spoken words. The Painted Man holds the stories he wants to tell in his heart. He holds them tight and screams them inside his head. But, never a sound leaves his lips.

The place where a tongue should flick words through his teeth is hollow, empty. He can scream no words from his mouth. But, all those words have to go somewhere. There is only so much room inside the body of a man, only so much space to hold everything you feel, everything you want to say. Where can the words go if there is no way to release them?

If Painted Man knew what to do with a pen, he might find a way to release the words. If he knew what words were supposed to look like when they were written down, he might have some place to put the words when there was no more room in his heart. But, written words are about as useful to Painted Man as spoken words, and about as easily produced.

Day 6:

cokes consumed: 0

sugar consumed: bread

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A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered...

Bitter Honey

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words, there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts. Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons, there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch. We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams, we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams. It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through, that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

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