The phrase ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ recently came into my head when I was talking to a friend about an actor she thought was drop-dead gorgeous. I completely disagreed and it got me thinking how true the saying is. So your prompt this week is:
BEAUTY
What do you see as beautiful? The landscape? Animals? The weather? Tattoos? Someone’s countenance, or perhaps how they radiate from the inside out?
You don’t have to share your work, but I always enjoy seeing what you come up with if the prompt gives you inspiration. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt SUPERNATURAL.
beyond empirical or the sense
st paul tells us heaven is eye has not seen
nor ear heard
there are polar ups and downs
smiles to frowns
a war
of good and evil
LOST SOUL
I could bury your lost soul in fog,
The mists of time mysterious…
Seeping through my brain’s lament,
You make me most delirious.
I will not bury you now,
To let you rot away…
You are the beating of my heart,
And there you’ll always stay.
As I release you out of my mind,
I see you in my dream…
A ghost upon my psyche…
So present, yet still unseen.
I cried when you were finished, then…
But never were you diminished…
A breath of life I gave to you,
And now you are replenished.
I write your story on my soul,
To bring you back to life…
A supernatural being, now
free of pain and strife.
Your cryptic ghostly wanderings,
Your still alive remains…
I write your story on my soul,
And sing your sad refrains.
***
~this is an elegy poem~
***
Wilf Leahy:
He sat at his desk typing the last chapter of his book. This chapter was going to be the ending of all endings, he thought. I’m going to shock the readers.
Jack, the main character of the story, was typing up his report on the disaster that had happened and had changed his mind on quantum physics. He now believed that it was possible for people to fall into a quantum world.
Suddenly he stop typing. What was that strange feeling that had come over him? He could see his reflection in the screen of his computer. What was going on? He watched as he saw his face slowly melt away. Crying out for help he became unconscious. Slowly coming to, he saw he was in a different room. His wife was laying on the floor and he rushed to her side. There were signs of life; he instinctively gave mouth to mouth. She responded; he sat her up and taking out his mobile he rang 999.
His wife made a full recovery but he could never forget his step into the supernatural.
I sometimes know when things are going to happen. Like the timer on the cooker. I always go to it when the timer says 1 minute. I know when my sister is going to ring. I can top up a drink with exactly the amount that will fill the glass and empty the bottle.. I once sat with my back to oncoming traffic and decided what colour car would be the next to come past me.. And it seemed to work. I also seem to have the odd premonition in a dream that have happened afterwards.
When I was a child, we lived in a very old house that my family believed was haunted. My paternal grandparents lived in this home first with my father and his brother.
When we lived in the house, I was very young. I can’t remember how many years we lived there, but I believe we lived there from the time I was born until I was five, and that’s when we moved. I was a typical scared little kid, scared of shadows and the dark, but even as a little kid I somehow sensed that our house was unusually creepy. It didn’t help that I had overheard grown-ups saying that a man had hung himself in the attic. The attic, by the way, had a door that was right by my parent’s bedroom.
Ironically, the house was really lovely inside. It had all the glorious woodwork, pocket doors, and hardwood floors that an 1800’s home possessed plus a beautiful fireplace in the living room. The downstairs consisted of the living room, dining room, kitchen and back room. The bedrooms were upstairs. I shared a room with my sister, Cindy, who was 2 years younger than me. Our room was at the top of the stairs to the left. The stairs began by the front door and went up and back towards the back of the house. At the top of the stairs to the right was an L shaped room with the largest part at the front of the house. This had been a sitting room or sewing room. It had large windows and window seats across the front. Then my parent’s room was to the side of that room. When our sister, Sharon, was born the sitting room became her nursery and our toy room.
Sometimes, in the evenings around the time my father would come home from work, we would hear the front door open and close, and footsteps into the living room. My mother would call out, “Honey?” and Cindy and I would run to greet our dad, but there was no one in the room. We would look around, look at each other, and my mother would always say, “Oh, that was just the house making noises.” She would go back to the kitchen where dinner was being prepared, and we would follow. But Cindy and I knew it was something other than house noises. This happened so often that my poor father was rarely greeted when he came home.
At night, I would often wake up to the sound of the stairs creaking loudly, which they did, as though someone was coming upstairs. I would tremble in fear, thinking that the ghost of the hanged man was coming to get me. I was too afraid to go to the door to see him, and instead pulled the covers over my head. I would listen very carefully to hear where his footsteps would go when he got to the top of the stairs, but there was always silence. One night I really had to pee, so after I heard the creaking, I got up and stood by my door. I thought, when it gets quiet I’ll run to the bathroom. When the noise stopped, I carefully edged out into the hallway, looking down the stairs, holding my breath, holding my pee. All I saw was blackness and the blackness held substance and I felt frozen in fear and I didn’t know if I could take a single step. Then I heard a very deep voice, “What are you doing up, Squirt?” It was my father on the stairs. He scared me so badly I can’t say for sure if I made it to the bathroom in time.
So, when we lived there, weird things happened. Often, many of our belongings got moved around. Sometimes we would hear loud noises coming from a room and cautiously walk into that room only to see that nothing had happened and things were right where they were supposed to be.
Years later, my grandmother chose to tell me some stories about things that happened at the house when she lived there. I can only remember a couple of stories she told. She said one night, in the middle of the night, she heard a loud clanging. She said it sounded like someone had thrown a metal wash tub down the stairs. Grandpa was gone, but my dad was there and so was his brother and they were teenagers and strong young men. Grandma said that my dad grabbed the poker from the fireplace and they stood in the living room, waiting for whatever it was to come out and show itself. But it never did show itself. The other story she told me was about a time when they were in the living room and they all heard a horrible crash in the kitchen. It sounded like a cabinet had fallen from the wall. They ran into the kitchen to see what happened, but could not see a single thing out of place. Grandma told me that the ghost loved to make loud noises, to make his presence known. She had never been afraid of him. In fact, they called him George. Just thinking of that name still gives me the shivers to this day. When we moved, my sister Cindy, who was 3 at the time, told me that she told George he could come with us to our new house. I just about fainted. And there were some weird things that happened at our new home, too, but lets not get into that right now.
I suppose some might not think our haunted house was much of a big deal. But there were supernatural occurrences that happened regularly when we lived there. Things happened that could not be explained, and there were many witnesses to corroborate stories. And these events went on for many, many years. I’m an older woman now, and if you asked me if I believe in ghosts, I would tell you no. I think it’s just too frightening to think about the spirits of the dead engaging with those of us who are alive. If someone is going to interact with me, by golly I want them to have a body I can see. And it doesn’t go along with my beliefs, either. I believe that when you die, you meet God and He determines where your next home will be. But I can’t deny what happened at our house. None of us did. Except my mother, that is. She always brushed off the events and tried to come up with an explanation.
I haven’t thought about George in a very long time. I can’t say that has been a bad thing. I don’t ever want to meet up with him again.
Monica spent her days dreaming about the supernatural and nothing could sway her from dreaming about the many different aspects of the supernatural world.
Her parents found her uncontrollable when it came to her behavior. She would not be disillusioned by her parents’ disbelief in the paranormal.
They admonished her, rather than nurturing her beliefs, but she nourished her own behaviors.
She sat on her bed surrounded by tons of books on the paranormal and studied up on it. Her parents’ tried to toss her books out, but she clung to them and since they were library books they couldn’t throw them out. She would just go check them out again. Plus she took a class on the paranormal so they couldn’t really forbid her from studying it.
Eerie lighting flickering in the hall. Midnight visits from CNAs all. Blood pressure, heart rate and oxygen level. I think hospitals were designed by a devil. Then a TB test not like I’m used to. A fine needle slipped under the skin, it stings. Wheelchair placed away from my reach. What lesson does this action teach? Bathroom visits were observed. I don’t think I did anything so bad this is what I deserve. I could understand some if this was from a nursing manual, but I think at night they all turn supernatural.
Once upon a time in a quaint village nestled between towering mountains and whispering woods, there lived a young girl named Elara. The village was known for its vibrant flowers and serene streams, but beyond its beauty lay an air of mystery that wrapped around the townsfolk like a shroud. Legends of the supernatural had woven their way into the hearts and minds of the locals, tales of spirits that roamed the night and enchanted beings that granted wishes to those pure of heart.
Elara was an inquisitive girl, her dark curls bouncing with every step she took through the meadows. She spent her afternoons exploring the forest, searching for the truth behind the enchanting stories that so captivated her imagination. It wasn’t long before she stumbled upon an ancient tree, its gnarled roots jutting out like arthritic fingers and its trunk wide enough to embrace. A faded carving caught her eye—a symbol that resembled a crescent moon entwined with a star.
Curiosity piqued, Elara placed her hand on the rough bark, feeling a warmth radiate from within. As her fingers brushed against the carving, a soft glow emanated from the tree, illuminating the surrounding darkness. Moments later, a figure emerged—a being that seemed to shimmer in and out of reality, as if woven from the very fabric of dreams. It had ethereal wings that caught the light in a brilliant display, and eyes that sparkled like the night sky.
“Fear not, dear child,” the being said, its voice like a soothing breeze. “I am Liora, the guardian of this forest. You have unlocked a portal to the supernatural realm.”
Elara’s heart raced with both fear and excitement. “Is it true? Do you grant wishes?”
Liora smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that seemed to make the world around Elara glow brighter. “Wishes, yes, but not all are meant for the taking. They come with a price, a binding of fate.”
With every ounce of courage, Elara asked, “Can you help me find my lost brother? He vanished in the woods last summer, and I’ve searched everywhere for him.”
Liora paused, her shimmering wings fluttering gently. “Your heart is heavy with love for your brother, and the bond you share is powerful. I can guide you to him, but you must promise to embrace the truth, no matter how challenging it may be.”
Without hesitation, Elara nodded, her determination unwavering. Liora lifted her hand, and the air shimmered, revealing a path that wound deeper into the forest than she had ever ventured. They walked together, the moonlight guiding their way, until they reached a glade where time itself seemed to slow.
In the center stood her brother, a boy of thirteen, gazing into a pond that reflected not just the moon, but emotions and memories that spanned their time together. His face was wistful, and Elara felt a pang in her chest—he was not lost but transformed by the magic of this realm.
“What have you become?” she whispered, tears in her eyes.
“I am part of the forest now, Elara. I can hear the whispers of the trees and feel the pulse of nature. But I miss you,” he replied, his voice a mixture of joy and sorrow.
Liora stepped back, allowing the siblings to embrace. “You have found each other in this supernatural tapestry. Cherish your bond, for love transcends time and space.”
Knowing she could not take her brother home, Elara promised, “I’ll carry you with me always, in my heart. I’ll tell the stories of our adventures.”
With that promise, the light around them pulsed and the glade began to fade. As she stepped back into her world, she knew that while their paths had diverged, the love that stitched their souls together would remain unbroken.
From that day forward, Elara became the storyteller of the village, weaving tales of the supernatural that inspired all who listened. She spoke of the guardian, the forest, and her beloved brother, a shimmering liaison between worlds, and the forest would whisper her name in return, forever grateful for the love that endured.
Shadowy figures come
Unbidden in my
Peripheral view,
Eerily moving,
Roaming at will.
Not quite definite,
Alternating forms
Taunting my consciousness:
Unnatural images,
Reminders of people lost,
Absent friends, memories
Linger as I drift.
Alone
I stand alone, small but determined
Beating out the flames of human catastrophe
Which burn my ordinary day to ashes
Then scatter indifferently on the winds of anguish and despair
No mythical bird rises dramatially
Stepping magically from the glowing embers
To grant me mental steel girders of fortitude
Bequeathing supernatural healing powers to my helpless hands
Undoing the clenched fists that help me stay upright
Alone, I must engage with my internal generals
Formulate strategies to engage this unwanted enemy
Alone, I plan my defense and mobilise my armies
***
When my life ignites
Burning right down to ashes
I always rebuild
Emerging cleansed and refreshed
From the Phoenix inferno
***
Esther Chilton 
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