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Cinderella’s slippers were reported to be glass in the fairy tale in which she danced the night away with a prince. After that night ended, the prince would search his kingdom high and low to once more find the beautiful woman whose foot fit the tiny slipper she had left behind. The detective looking at the gilded heels seemingly stepping across the golden shawl would search high and low for clues that would lead him to the man responsible for the murder of the woman who had once danced in those shoes.
He was a seasoned homicide veteran who had seen much worse carnage than the strangled woman sprawled across the pink bedspread. But something about those gilded heels and golden shawl struck a nerve in detective Lobos. As with all murder victims, her life would be carefully scrutinized in the hopes that it, along with forensic evidence gathered from the body, bedspread, and apartment would lead them to her killer. The heels and shawl though, spoke to him of dreams of golden of moments that should have ended with her in the arms of a loving man she would always see as her Prince Charming. After taking a quick shot of the heels and shawl with his cell phone camera, he went back into the bedroom to supervise the CSI team as they gathered evidence.
Over the next two months, it would be that photo that drove Harry Lobos to find the jealous ex boyfriend who had strangled the lovely brunette woman.
Fringe and Fluff
I looked up from my newspaper to gaze across the room at Marselina. Her deep, soulful brown eyes did not catch my gaze and she continued to stare at the hearth as if to absorb the flames licking hungrily at the pine logs. Her nose twitched as the scent of the burning wood drifted outside the perimeter of the source.
She rose and stretched sensuously; completely aware my eyes watched her progress to the cottage door. The waft of cool air into the room was the only unspoken good-bye. As was her way, leaving without a word, I had long accepted her eccentricity.
I heard the whisper of softness sigh, but busy working the jumble, taking little heed. Then click, click, thump but again failed to be distracted from the cryptoquip. When the second click, click, thump resounded, I looked up from reading to wonder.
As Marselina re-entered, I could tell by the light in her eyes mischief was afoot.
I re-read my horoscope which stated “check out a source of information and where all this is come from”. She soft-footedly returned to her previous station in front of the hearth. Her sly grin of contentment did catch my eye and my mind knowing that not a good sign.
I glanced at the cottage door, not missing her body tensing. I knew her wily ways. Often had there been times I had to negotiate a peace treaty on behalf of Marselina’s kleptomaniac habits. I walked nonchalantly to the door, acting as innocent as had she upon re-entry.
I opened the door, almost speechless at the art she had created upon the stoop. It was as if she had taken great pain to create the visage. “Marselina, I do not know whether to be angry or reward you!”
I carefully retrieved the stolen golden moments and put the bounty away for safe keeping, glad the fragile items were unscathed. This would stead good when the mistress of said beauties came a-knocking.
I reached in the cabinet for the biscuits as the collie cheerfully bounced forth as if due retribution. “Marselina, what shall I ever do with you? Never has anyone suffered such with a kleptomaniac, artistic Lassie!”
The Last Time.
Still they lie on the living room floor, My sexy heels and golden shawl, We stood in that spot and started to kiss, Lost in the moment,my shawl softly slipped, The kiss of a lifetime, you blew me away, Our passion was urgent, we just couldn’t wait, Your strong loving arms kept drawing me in, Then you lifted me up and my shoes left my skin, We made passionate love as the sun gently set T’was the last time i saw you but i’ll never forget.
Louise Morgan (deva64)
Ellen could no longer remember the name she had dreamed up for herself. It might have been Eva, it might have been Goldie or it might have been Margarita. Nor could she picture the face of the man she followed to the big city. Did he have dark hair? She remembered that he did have fine hands. Sometimes, if she tried, she could remember the laughter of the crowds, the awed hush that would fall over the audience as the curtain rose and the smell of greasepaint.
She remembered those shoes. How they hurt by the end of the night but they made her feel like the star she was going to be. They were glamour. They were class. She only tripped once. While she was walking across the stage on her last night in that tiny, run-down shack of a theatre she stumbled and fell into the pit. It was so long ago. Ellen thinks one of the trumpet players helped her up, but it could have been the bassist. Even those memories are fading now, as she sits with the other once-golden stars, waiting to shine for one last time. Did she ever make it to the big theatre down the street? Did she have her name in the golden lights, that name she dreamed up will looking at the stars?
Lying on the hard floor
The end of a romantic interlude
Golden flashes of a tender night on the town
Yet all I can see is a cowgirl in jeans
Smiling her best smile imaginable
While sitting at her computer
Fingers flying very fast
Creating a new story
Of freedom of soul
And clarity of
To submit your own story or poem Click Here and paste your story or poem of 350 words or less in the body of an email. NO attachments please. Though you may name your story or poem whatever you wish, please include the words Golden Moments in the subject line or body of the email.