The Cold Bite of Autumn (Part 11)

Daniel stepped back and scanned the cabin. One room, one queen bed, one door. Substantial floor space, even with a small table, allowed a sense of openness. Claustrophobia might otherwise overwhelm anyone staying here for any length of time.

"They meant the world, and you turned. That means you thought they could pull it off."

Samantha's lips tightened and her voice thinned to an icy whisper, "what it meant was I thought I had a chance to get back a life."

"My apologies," he said as he put dry goods in the small pantry. "I didn't know you were so emotionally involved."

"Yeah, that's something that doesn't usually come with the territory does it?" Samantha laid back and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know when it happened or how, but somewhere I lost my edge."

"By edge, you mean your ability to distance yourself from feeling?"

"No, losing my desire to kill. Too many people need to die to make this world a better place. I knew I had no chance to kill them all and I also knew my contributions were limited at best, so what's the point? I just wanted to settle down and forget."

Daniel opened the door, hesitated and said, "I'm going to scrounge up some firewood. Back in a few." The door clanked shut followed by footsteps fading from the cabin porch.

Okay, Another Poem

Soft West Virginia Rain

Soft West Virginia rain cascades to my spirit
Gentle droplets on a lush emotional landscape
Sadness mixed with joy
Solitude varied from melancholy to peace.

Soft West Virginia rain defines my heart
Life-giving and placid, home and friends
Tranquility wafts like breezes through a calm drizzle
Cares of the world no longer piercing my mind.

Soft West Virginia rain tugs at my soul,
Whispering pleas to stay my feet
Soft West Virginia rain mends me whole
And I wonder at how I could ever leave.

New Poem

Fiction’s Footsteps

Fiction’s footsteps – no footprints at the beach
Washed away by tides of undiscerning minds
Nor imprints in the desert
Blown away by uncaring winds of disinterest

Fiction’s footsteps stroll pristine snows
Grand stories stray from well-traveled paths
Scribed into virgin white landscapes
Until the warmth of time descends on this writer’s world

Fiction’s footsteps follow less defined paths
Than well-worn trails of everyday life
Fiction’s footsteps beg the blank canvas and solitude
Snowfalls bless upon the writer’s landscape

Yes, fiction’s footsteps fade over time – nothing left behind
But oh what a life a story clasps
As it takes on its form, shape and meaning
From the fingers of a loving author