Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Eden, Redux

Thanks to those who did the silly little poll I asked you to fill out. I felt the love! :) For some reason, even though I have a good amount of traffic on this blog, folks rarely comment or interact. Lots of lurkers though. And that's fine. I think many of you enjoy peeking into other people's thoughts, like I do. 

I believe good literature is like that: It lifts the veil and permits access to inner thoughts and private activities. For a brief while, we become gods. 

Request: Please do me a favor and do not visit here directly from an "adult" site. I do not want to see those images and I am ignorant of the site names. Blogger sends me info on what page my visitors link here from. It's totally cool with me that you go wherever and I do not judge. I simply request that you extend the courtesy to me so I don't have to "go places" I prefer not to visit. I believe I would almost prefer to lose readers than to have to see those images again. Thanks!

Today, I am writing about an incident that took place on the Dragon's Tail, U.S. 129 between Tennessee and North Carolina. So until that's ready to go, I'll leave you with "Eden," the micro flash piece that won the International Binnacle Award. I hope you enjoy it. And if you STILL haven't read about the "Dangling Kiss" on the last blog post, be sure and click Older Posts when you are finished reading "Eden." You might be glad you did.~GHC

Eden - by Ginger Hamilton Caudill

In her dreams, the muted heather hills roll on forever. Verdant fields flow beneath her bare feet like bottle-green sea surge. A brook curls around the massive trunks of ancient oak trees; she dips her toes into its soothing stream. Flowers' fragrant perfumes waft on the breeze. Enticed by the songbirds' serene harmony, she lies down to rest.

The alarm clock snatches her from sylvan heaven to a studio apartment. Overhead, the city looms like a grimy Goliath. Below, sirens wail and horns reply; angry voices clash with the traffic's din. An ancient light fixture trembles as the corpulent man upstairs lumbers to his kitchen. The smells of pork and rancid cooking oil linger in the atmosphere.

She slips into grease-slicked shoes and pins a nametag to the bodice of her uniform. Reconciled to raising her ransom, Eve faces the world.

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