Reflections

Gorgon Medusa. Mirror of Memory” by Lilia Osipova


She’s caught gazing upon her stony image
Eyes peering longingly at her reflection
Refusing to see her now ugly visage
She lets her mind believe its own deception
In trials and tribulations she is well versed
Living the life of one forever cursed
Her hair may be writhing with venomous snakes
It’s what’s hidden inside that makes her heart break

It’s what’s hidden inside that makes her heart break
The beauty that people always fail to see
Knowing that her gaze will put their lives at stake
Not taking any chances, they turn and flee
Leaving her, always so sad and so alone
Lest they be stuck, turned forever into stone
Since all are threatened by her stony gaze
She’ll be alone until the end of her days

She’ll be alone until the end of her days
Always wishing for some reason to rejoice
To perhaps be caught in some ones loving gaze
Hear the tenderness and love within their voice
Shattering what has become reality
Taking her to a place of surreality
Forever breaking the lonesome, horrid curse
Calming tribulations that are her life’s verse

A calming of tribulations in her life
Is feeling she will never get to know
She is bound forever by trial and strife
Until she’s finally dealt that fatal blow

She’s caught gazing on her reflection shown
Seeing someone forever to be unknown
Wishing, just once, she could turn her heart to stone

© AC Elliott, 18-Sep-18 (originally written in 2014)

Advertisements

On Shaving and Compassion (Thinking Over Coffee #6)

I woke up this morning, and somehow managed to slide out of the bed. By sliding, I literally mean…sliding. I had done something to my back towards the end of last week and it hasn’t been forgiving to me in the least. Needless to say the muscle relaxers are long out of my system by the time I try to get up. Therefore, sliding is a necessary evil.

It’s not the age, it’s the mileage, I thought to myself (not for the first time). I can’t remember where I first heard that turn of phrase, but these days it’s more applicable than it used to be. Between the shoulder I’ve dislocated so many times that I’ve lost count, the bum knee from 20 years earlier, and my back…there’s a lot of mileage on my body.

Stumbling over to the vanity, I took a bath cloth and ran it under cold water. I was hoping that the cold, damp cloth would help to clear the fog in my brain from the muscle relaxer. It didn’t, but, at least I tried.

Damn, if that boy wasn’t right, I thought, looking at myself in the mirror. My youngest son had recently told me “the gray really shines through when the light hits your beard just right.” He was right, it did shine through, like shimmering stars on a cloudless night. In and of itself, that didn’t bother me in the least. After all, I know how old I am, and gray hair is par for the course as you age. Still, I decided to shave it off none-the-less, for no other reason than the fact that I hated how itchy it made me feel when working outside this past weekend.

Finally, ready for my day, I decided to make some coffee and think for a bit. I had recently been talking about my progress and evolution in writing/blogging. So, I thought I might continue down that line, but my brain had other ideas.

My coffee tasted bitter today. There was nothing different about it. I used the same coffee grounds, the same amount of creamer and nothing changed with the sweetener. So, there was nothing wrong with my coffee. I could only assume that the problem was with my own taste buds and the bitterness that clung to it.

I’m not sure where the bitter taste came from either. It was just there. I was in one of “those moods” today, and I couldn’t shake it no matter how hard I tried. It might have had something to do with the ominous feeling of change that I felt settle over my shoulders as soon as I woke up.

Those changes could have been work related. Last week I had a large meeting that lasted 2 to 3 days, where a lot of things were discussed, changes were made organizationally, and new tasks were handed out. Truth be told, I am still unsure of what is going to come from it.

Or, it could have been personally related. Especially since I have a lot going on there as well.

Regardless of the cause, the bitter taste was there, and I couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard I tried. One thing I do know, is that it has influenced the rest of my day and heavily impacted my thoughts.

For some reason, it brought to mind a discussion I had with my new director last week, about strengths and weaknesses.

The Conversation

“What do you feel is one of your strengths?” he had asked me, while we were getting to know one another.

“My compassion has always been a strength, because underneath this rough exterior, I really do care for my people.” (further expounding unneeded for this venue)

“And, your weakness?” He asked, and I smirked, knowing that question would come up next.

“My compassion, because underneath this rough exterior and loud bark, I really do give a shit about people.”

Further Thoughts

So, how can being compassionate be both a strength and a weakness? I asked myself, taking another sip of coffee. Is that even possible? Well, obviously it is, because I just stated it was both a strength and a weakness of mine. I’m still working on how to explain the how and why.

~~~~
© AC Elliott, 21-Aug-18

The Patient Man (Part 2)

Paul couldn’t help but admire the view as he approached her. The way she was spread open for him was so inviting, and in many ways, quite distracting. It would be easy to just relent, and admit defeat, just to be inside of her. But, he could be just as stubborn as she was intent on being, besides…it wasn’t a part of the plan.

Stay focused, he thought to himself, this is going to be a long, fun night.

As he stepped up to her, he ran his fingers lightly over her exposed ass cheeks. He smiled, tracing the red welts gently with his fingertips, and watched the fire get brighter in her eyes. Their time had started much earlier in the evening, even before they had entered the room at all. In fact, her being in the swing was the second part of the night.

While they were becoming more comfortable being in each other’s presence, up until that evening, there had been no impact play at all. Not that he hadn’t wanted there to be any, they just took their time building up to that moment. Their days had been spent getting to know one another, and take in the local sights, while their nights had been spent getting to know one another on a more intimate level.

Then, what had started as heavy petting during an early evening quickie, escalated to another level entirely when he had smacked her bare ass playfully. That one smack had flipped a switch in them both, igniting their desire for much more. He could still see the look in her eyes after that first smack, and how she arched her back, raising her backside up for more.

He had been more than willing to oblige too, bringing his hand down on the other cheek tentatively testing the water. The look she threw him had said volumes, more than anything she could have said verbally. More, harder, the fiery look read as she wiggled her ass seductively, and that was all he needed to know.

Soon after, Paul was beating a steady tattoo on her round cheeks, watching them turn red as her yelps of pain turned to moans of pleasure. He loved the feel of her flesh beneath the palm of his hand, and the resulting sting from each hard smack. The smell of her arousal permeated the room as moisture began forming on her folds.

Pausing, he slipped his long fingers between her folds, and sheathed them in her velvet embrace with a single thrust. The urge to take her right then had been overwhelming to say the least, especially when he felt her clasp hard around his fingers. However, she must have seen the glint in his eyes when she looked over her shoulder at him.

“The room,” was all she said, and they both knew what that meant.

Now, here she was, bound and spread on the swing she had lovingly caressed just a couple days prior when she was shown the room for the first time. They had discussed this room many times over the past several months as he was getting it setup. Their safe word was long established. It was to be their escape, where reality was put on hold and left at the door, even if only for the time they were immersed in one another.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked her, running his fingers along her inner thigh.

(To be continued)

~~~~
© AC Elliott, 14-Aug-18

Discovering the Void (Thinking Over Coffee #5)

I woke this morning, and once again reluctantly started my day. Looking in the mirror, I could see the gruff visage and dark eyes looking back at me. I had recently decided to grow my beard out, and honestly, I’m still on the fence about whether to keep it or not. Especially after my son made certain to point out the gray in my beard the night before, and how “when the light shines, the gray just shines!” God love him, I thought, deciding to leave the beard for now.

Once I was finally ready for the day, I poured my coffee, and as usual, added my dash of sweetener and creamer. Taking a sip, my mind immediately wandered back to this little series. I had started it a couple of weeks prior and it was aptly named “Thinking Over Coffee”, because, well… it is my thoughts while sipping my coffee, lol.

When I started it, I wasn’t certain where I wanted to go with it. All I knew was that it isn’t easy for me to talk openly about myself, so I started writing it in the third person as a story format. That was easier for me to do, and while I am not usually one to take the easy road (on anything), I felt it was a good way to break myself in properly. And, now, I am ready to change it up some and write it in the first person as a personal narrative. We will see how it works out…

~~~~

In the last couple of entries, I had taken on discussing my writing and where it comes from. The original title of this portion of “ToC” was actually “The Evolution of AC Elliott”, because I wanted to discuss how my writing came to be and the different variations I have gone through over the years. However, I later changed the title to “A Means of Escape”, because it fit the content better. Truthfully, I had no idea where it was going to go and was surprised with how it all came out.

I had left off on my last post talking about how there was “No Means of Escape”. In that piece I had shared how I had felt my work wasn’t good enough to share due to the negative reinforcement I had been receiving. That wasn’t written out of self-pity, it was more a retrospective piece and I am continuing in the same vein.

~~~~

Then

In 2000, I had decided to delete my first website and withdrew from writing altogether. There was a bitter taste in my mouth when it came to writing, any kind of writing. I still told stories to my oldest son, who was 7 at the time, but the thought of picking up a pen to write made me sick to my stomach. That feeling stuck with me for the next several years too, until sometime in early-to-mid 2004.

By 2004, my life had changed quite a bit. In the intervening years, I had started up two businesses, was working full time, was deeply enmeshed in college studies, and I had gotten married to my second wife. One would think that all of that would be enough, but still there was a void inside of me. Something was missing from my life and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Ironically, I had found my love for writing again through writing college papers. Especially philosophical and argumentative papers (because I am soooo opinionated). However, I also enjoyed the dissecting of classical literature and poetry. At the time, I had written a paper on Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” wherein I portrayed Dr. Jekyll as a Victorian Age drug addict. Afterwards, I tackled Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem “Christabel” comparing the main character to a vampire. Once more, my fate was sealed, I was hooked and had found what was missing from my life.

Although I was once more hooked, I still wasn’t certain what to do with it. I was reticent about creating another site for hosting writing. I really didn’t know how to market it anyway, and I was still deeply enmeshed in my college studies as well. Therefore, time was not on my side (and it never has been either).

Then, I stumbled onto a website that allowed you to post articles. It escapes me what that website was called at the time, and it may/may not still be around. However, it was a website that allowed you to write articles in different categories based on topics that were presented. Intrigued, I took a stab at it and began writing articles here and there (when I wasn’t busy with other things).

It was fun, but still something was missing… I still needed to find my escape and those articles weren’t proving to be the ticket…

(To be continued)

~~~~
© AC Elliott, 14-Aug-18

The Patient Man (Part 1)

Paul had been waiting for this moment for quite some time. The moment that seemed to never come, when he would be able to spend some quality time with her. They had talked about it for months on end, even planned it several times, but nothing ever came to fruition. Life kept getting in the way, and the miles between them seemed to stretch into an eternity.

Now, there they were, in the spare room of his old farmhouse. One that he had specially designed for an occasion such as this. It had been sitting empty, waiting for her to arrive. He had everything meticulously in place, ready and waiting.

Truth be told, they hadn’t immediately rushed into the room when she first arrived. Although that would have been interesting and fun, they didn’t make use of the room until the third day of her stay with him. The first couple of days were spent enjoying each other’s company and building up to this moment. After all, there was no reason to rush things.

“There’s a time for everything,” he said to himself, viewing her from across the room.

There she was, sitting in the swing, with her legs spread wide, bared and open to his viewing. He had tied her hands behind her back, leaving her swinging in the middle of the room while he opened a chest kept at the end of the bed. From within the chest, he began pulling a variety of implements and toys, until he found the ones he was looking for.

Satisfied, he crossed back over to where she was bound. There was a defiant look in her eyes, and he liked that. She had said that she wouldn’t beg, and he knew that she meant it. Yet, he wondered, who would break first? Would she relent and beg, or would he give in to his own base desires? Only time would tell, and he was a patient man.

~~~~
© AC Elliott, 13-Aug-18