Two posts ago I mentioned I planned to focus more of my energy on creating stories involving paranormal topics, perhaps with a twist of love or romance. A couple ideas came to me in the meantime but none took flight. Until now.
I love starting stories with things that actually happened to me and then letting my imagination run wild to see where it takes the story and me, and the seed of this story is no exception.
Hanging on the wall over the bed in the guest bedroom of a loved one’s home where I often stayed was a painting that was the stunning focal point of the room. It was of a beautiful Hispanic young woman. She was nude and lying on her side facing the bed I would be sleeping in. The scene appeared to be in a wealthy mansion or perhaps a bordello with a wealthy clientele somewhere in Mexico or near the U.S./Mexican Border, and from long ago, perhaps shortly after the U.S. Civil War. I couldn’t keep from staring at her.
My hostess said with a knowing smile, “It’s her eyes. They seem to follow you wherever you are in the room.” She was partially right, but it was far more than that.
After my hostess bade me goodnight, I stood and stared at the most intriguing eyes I’d ever seen. Beneath her irresistable come-hither invitation, it was as though I saw into the depths of her soul and could feel everything she’d ever felt. Wave after wave came over me, of lost innocence, regret, pain, and desperation. Her eyes also spoke of what had once been a beautiful spirit in an innocent young girl, now greatly diminished by a lifetime of hardship and ugliness compressed into her too few years. Her spirit was fiercely clinging to its last vestiges of hope and humanity. I experienced her anguish from her belief she’d sunk so low that she was beyond saving. I felt something else from those eyes. A desperate call for help.
With this story seed I have cast off for another journey into the unknown down the Creative River. I hope I’m ready for whatever challenges I’ll face on this adventure. I have no idea how long this journey may be, where I’ll end up, or even if I’ll be able to complete it, but the river calls to me, and much like the eyes of the woman in the painting, I must answer.