falling leaves

I have missed wordzzles, playing with the words and reading everyone’s quirky and inspired stories. To say life has been crazy busy would be an understatement. Last night, I took a look at next week’s words, and decided to jump in with both feet now. I must admit to feeling a bit rusty. Anyway, here’s my offering. Hello to all the wordzzle Houdinis. Hope all is well with you.

This Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: Tibetan sky, symbols, won’t you come home Bill Baily, shadow figures, brain cortex, practice makes perfect, life, start of school, lavender, chow down

And for the mini: mental hospital, falling leaves, apple cider, packing crates, clues

It was that time of year where everything from the mullet to the grasshopper was peaking. A full flush fanned the table. The ripened tassels swilled in the hills. Priscilla was afraid that all this brilliance would crest too soon, disappear without a trace. This damned season which caused her clouded blood to slow.

This was the 20th anniversary of the “unraveling‘’ which had landed her in the Oak Hills Mental Hospital. It was painful to think about. For so many years the memory of it had dwelled in her marrow, rebuffed. And the hooded dread had swelled and had its way.

With the start of school, she was hopeful again. Life was full of symbols. The falling leaves carnelian under a wide Tibetan sky.

Priscilla stared at the packing crates stacked in a self satisfied configuration in the SW corner of the room. They stared back at her. Filled to the brim with keepsakes not worth keeping. Spiral journals penned in lavender ink. It was the close of her 19th summer and she was tired of tracking down clues. Shadow figures lurked on every corner. Paul’s unsandeled feet portended death. The Phrygian caws were a certain sign. And the jam between her toes was full of mold.

She sat at the piano, fingering chords that filtered through her brain cortex like shadowed figures. Won’t you come home Bill Baily. Won’t you come home? She wanted to hear the refrain again. Practice makes perfect. She cupped the mulled apple cider closer. Then chuckled to herself, reinforcing the comfort that flooded. The falling leaves were at once beautiful in their covenant. Soon she would chow down blissfully on butternut soup. And open her books.

These were the burning times!