It is a memory from the rafters of days long gone. It holds no dearness of heart or sweet song, but inundates in a taste most vile of lasting resentment. At least the choice is mine now, so I always choose to drown the memory along with its tattered dreams.

When it manages to rise, however, it transpires clearly as though born anew each time, to haunt with a predatory nature, traipsing through submerged scenes.

I see a single slipper, lying on a leaf strewn lawn, its pale pink loveliness decorated in small roses. It is a stark reminder of beauty framed in man’s cruelty, its delicateness wrapped in the wrath of a single man's actions. It is a moment frozen in time, emblazoned with impending doom, a failure fueled by anger and drunkenness, manifested in a fist of rage supreme. Time is suspended and cemented betwixt dark violence and pale weakness, all hope tattered and destroyed amongst the withered eaves.

It resides deep, a memory best forgotten, yet resurfacing too often to tease and taunt while replaying like a reel-to-reel old-fashioned movie. The main character’s fist looms high as though he's Caesar, come to conquer Rome and its surroundings. He strikes a pose of intimidation and swings, the force and brevity of his fist unjust, unkind as two sets of youthful eyes look on in abject fear. She’s thrown, stumbles and falls, while her slipper flies high, descending in an arc before landing with a thud on a bed of cracked leaves, its final resting place.

It was an onslaught, a barrage of emotions that sprang forth inside, scarring youth’s survival, and all within a single breath and heartbeat. Disbelief, angst, disappointment, horror, anger, loathing, and something more substantial, akin to hatred, sprouted to take root with its intensity carried on wings of youth’s wide-eyed innocence. A new perception of a man who dared call himself ‘father and husband’; innocence and illusions flew away on wings of something sinister, crudely alarming in its cold, dispelling truth.

Life’s winding path of crevices can pivot, leaving one stumbling in efforts to spurn the recurrence of such resentments. Still, despite the best of endeavors, steadfast and firm, they will latch tight, though years drift by, some slowly and some swiftly, and a time of treasured golden haze arrives. The struggle to reconcile past resentments remains resolute, a firm impediment and harsh reality, encompassing the circles of our lives.

I think it will be never - no, never though I live a thousand years - never will my mind release the sordid memory buried within the crux of my soul's depth, of one solitary, rose encrusted, and pink slipper – my dear, soft, sweet, treasured mother’s lonely shoe – discarded, much like her broken, dying marriage, upon a bed of withered brown and scattered leaves.

No, I think it will be never………….no, never though I live a thousand years………

Cynthia D Calder, 08.13.25

Beat, belabor, intimidate, and arrogantly exhibit those foul deeds amongst your peers while with a double edged sword you seek yet to hide the atrocities found therein. You're borne from the depths of virulent death, destruction, and mayhem. You are the purest form of evil, not easily disguised by the masks you don, which instead, showcase and lay bare your most barbaric ways and wiles.

The world watches while you repeatedly attempt to discard your trash, much like forgotten weeds scattered in the garden. Instead, all remain cognizant of the depths of iniquity feeding the fetor of your soul, swiftly aiding its demoralized decay. Hope and decency have long since fled, absconding due to the draining drought of moral aptitude. You are an empty, hellish nob, festering naught save hatred and discord amongst the masses. You are the vilest of scum, on bright display, but lest you forget, remember all the world's a stage....and you are front and center.

We see you in all your perverted glory and gore. We see exactly who you are....and the enormity of what you so luridly lack.

I write because there’s no other choice. To write completes a manifestation of my greatest imagined creations. Not for the weak at heart, writing divulges innermost thoughts and desires, laying wide the door for all to see my weakest – and my strongest - endeavors.

Writing is my dream, unearthed.

Unfathomable, formidable, and intrusive,

His killer instinct roams

Indistinguishable amid each day’s normalcy.

He is your friend, neighbor, companion, and confidant,

Who with rapture lies in wait,

Biding his time, waiting to mark the perfect moment

To snuff a life from its cradle of warmth.

He listens with rapture to every word,

Always present, always watchful -

Ever the predator seeking fulfillment of

A strangely wired desire which bears

no explanation, rhyme, or reason.,

The evil incarnate housed within

Is a driving force, an unimaginable need

Targeting a sublime completion

of the foulest, darkest deeds.

With each step he makes,

Each act completed,

His mind carries no weight of remorse,

No empathy, and no compassion.

He is merciless, his eyes black and soulless,

Akin to a spoiled apple, rotting at the core.

Born of Hell’s doom and devastation,

He is the scourge of the earth.

Beware, for low and behold,

He lurks around every corner -

A walking, breathing manifestation

Of your worst nightmare.

Fragility is hidden,

A deeply rooted facet,

Flourishing amidst ever present insecurities.

Though I may bend, I may also break

And far too easily.

Words have teeth and actions fists,

Each the fiercest opponent,

Akin to catalysts able to strike like

Lightening amidst a raging storm.

Tread cautiously, I plead,

For often, you will find me

Teetering as I stroll upon

Wobbly branches, easily shaken

By the slightest of breezes.

Take care and remember

Words have an endlessness in life,

Spinning themselves like finely woven steel

Within the tapestries of our hearts and minds.

There is such sorrow and difficulty to be had with

Disregarding ill spoken words,

Or worse yet,

Actions driven by ignoble thoughts.

Forgiveness can remain difficult, at best,

And moving beyond such things, nearly futile

When the disease they’ve created festers

To eat healthy tissue in putrid destruction,

Effectively killing all affection formerly felt

In the heart of the afflicted one.

Choose wisely and take care,

Treading cautiously for I am unable

To sustain myself for any length

Against the anguish inflicted by

Webs woven of ill intended

Words and deeds.

Yes, my name is fragility,

Whose existence is threatened by

A thought, a word, or a deed

Born of an iniquitous nature.

Remember while I may bend -

To only a degree -

Inside me the heartbeat

Sustaining my regard and affection

May eventually break,

Shattering asunder into little pieces and

Rendering my heart like a shattered window,

Its jagged edges barring all possibility

Of further entry

Into my broken heart.

Cynthia Calder, 03.13.25

“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” ― William Faulkner

The tension mounts in escalating moments

Of friction and unease.

My heartbeat and breathing, in unison,

Resound in a tempo rubato.

I’m terrified, unsure of my step

As I venture toward the unknown.

Will the road drag me to hell

Or lift me toward heaven?

Methinks my end will likely be hell

For my body rebels,

Wreaking torrential sweat and dripping profusely

To the rhythmic thunder of my heartbeat;

Like white noise, it reverberates,

Drowning all else,

Precluding the possibility of sanity.

An ocean, encompassing a multitude of sorrows,

Threatens to flood, overwhelming

As it rises in intensity and strength.

All that’s safe and warm succumbs to the sea

While I remain sinking on shore as the tide

Weaves in and out in repeated synchrony.

Darkness, looming in the fading distance,

Threatens the shell of my existence.

My mouth opens, harboring a howl,

But no sound escapes save the emptiness

Of a lone, residual breath.

Stumbling, teetering on the edge of an abyss,

Tears fall unabashedly.

I am Tantalus, incognito,

Banished to hell, forbidden water or nourishment,

With no relief in sight as a hell of my own making

Replenishes itself like a reoccurring nightmare.

A breeze lingers amidst the encroaching darkness.

In the dimness, I stretch out my hand,

Longing to capture its essence,

Starkly resisting capitulation to enemy forces.

The breeze is soft, barely discernable, but there nonetheless.

Hope rebounds, surging inside my breast,

Flooding the scourge of despair and futility.

In the span of a breath and heartbeat,

I am reminded I am loved and I am worthy.

With this enlightenment, a strength surfaces,

A gift freely given, able to conquer a mountain

Of fear and insecurity.

The gift is embellished with wonder and recognition.

I pull my feet from depths of sand and foaming water,

Shaking them free of all entanglement and doubt.

Turning my back on the obtrusive darkness,

I begin the long trek to lights lining faraway lands.

My breath grows steady and my heartbeat evens

Into a rhapsody of refined, renewable energy,

Encapsulated by life’s promises and possibilities.

I have won the battle…..

An ongoing, incessant war of which

I must always be aware and strive to conquer.

Yes, I have won the battle…..yet again…..

Cynthia Calder, 03.13.25

I inhale.

The fragrance of floral deities

Permeates,

Leaping

Into the crux

Of my heart.

I listen to

The harmonious accord

Of birds and nature,

All cognizant

Of a new dawn's

Composition,

An opera

Of birth divine.

Renewal and rejuvenation,

Simultaneous,

Like symphonies triumphant

In life’s revolving

Progression.

Hope rebounds,

Taunting my heartstrings,

An impetus

Dancing wildly,

Marking a chance

To begin anew.

Spring's abundance

Seizes,

A frenzied

Stampede revitalizing

My life

Yet again.

All is well with my soul.

Cynthia Calder, 03.13.25

The wind was blowing through the trees. Hard and brutal with the force of winter’s chill. I walked slowly along the path, remaining unfocused as to my eventual destination. My mind wandered recklessly with a multitude of fears, concerns, and other rambling thoughts. My body did not register the frigid temperatures or the rocky path upon which I stumbled.

When had it all be3gun? I did not know, but I did know I was not sure I could go on feeling like I did. I was ready for it all to end – no matter the cost. My heart beat rapidly inside my chest with each step I took, my face flushed and chapped by the wind - each seemingly symbolic of the turmoil that raged inside.

Danielle had been my closest friend – my ally and my confidant. She had stuck by me through thick and thin, through years of teenage angst, college and its learning curve, early adult years, and impending middle age, but now things were different. How had she changed in the blink of an eye? How had she betrayed me so unexpectedly and so viscuously? I would never be able to understand, never be able to quell the ache in my heart. If was as if she’d killed two birds with one stone when she chose to sleep with David.

David had never been much of a husband or father in the years I’d been with him, so his betrayal and lack of dedication didn’t actually surprise me. But Danielle? Well, that was another story. I’d thought no one could live up to her commitment or friendship, but I’d been so very wrong. She was a chameleon and worse than any traitor in an6y war. She’d not only betrayed me in each and every way, she had also broken my heart and ability to ever be able to trust another human being again. She did not deserve to continue her horrible antics. No, she did not deserve the gift of love……or worse yet, she did not deserve the gift of living.

The abrupt thought gave me pause and I stumbled on the rocky path. I stopped, my thoughts a whirlwind of anger, hurt, and possibilities. What the hell kind of thought had just entered my thought process? How could uI, an average and meek woman of forty-two years, even contemplate just a brutal thing as my best friend’s murder? I shook my head, aghast at my own train of thoughts, but then a smile, as cruel and as evil as Danielle took root and filled my visage.

Disclaimer: NOT based on actual fact or experiences. 15 minutes of pure fiction.

It is a relentlessly cold February morning, temperatures well below freezing. Silence breaks as each step is strategically placed with a resounding crunch echoing across the frozen pond. All else remains quiet with nary an animal in sight. Even the birds have not dared to venture forth so early. Greta thinks she must be mad, crossing the ice in such conditions. She has no no other choice, however, save allowing a life’s demise.

The pond’s been frozen solid for more than a month, making Greta’s weekly trek a bit easier while also shorter. She knows she shouldn’t chance it, but considering all that's to be accomplished in a given day, taking the shorter route has been worth the risk.

Greta glances up, watching illustrious clouds drift across dark skies. Delicate snowflakes are beginning to fall in rapid succession. She’s struck by the contrast betwixt intricately laced snowflakes and despairing, shadowed skies. The dismal thought lurches to the pit of her stomach as though a foreboding of things to come. Despite wearing boots and heavy layers, Greta shivers. Will the darkness of winter ever give way to spring? She will gleefully dance when she witnesses a blossom of new life. This winter's been a long one and spring cannot come soon enough.

She spies Grandma Agatha’s house in the distance, just before the heavy coppice of trees. The trees' branches, along with the house’s roof, are already laden with snowfall. Greta sighs with relief as spirals of smoke escape the chimney. Thankfully, Grandma Agatha won’t freeze for there is an abundance of logs to burn within easy reach.

Today, Greta’s basket carries loaves of freshly baked bread, red apples, tart cheese, as well as carrots and cabbage from the winter garden. Greta has made the same treacherous trip each week since mid-fall to ensure Grandma Agatha lacks for nothing. She can’t risk the old woman starving, especially when she has no other willing to offer assistance. The old woman lived a promiscuous life – certainly not up to the villager’s standards - so in older years, she is paying steeply. Greta’s conscience, however, dictates she help the woman for judgement is God’s alone to make.

Reaching the center of the pond, a noise resounds in the eerie silence. Panicked, adrenalin pumping, Greta begins to run, slipping and falling less than ten feet away. Spread eagle, she watches as an apple rolls across the ice, its redness resembling blood against the whiteness of the newly fallen snow.

The crack expands; cold-water invades. Greta bobs in the frigid water, gasping and struggling for only a moment before acceptance registers. No one hears save the birds, their wings flapping against air. The sound fills Greta’s ears.

Calming numbness floods. Hands, fingers already frozen, slide across the ice. The irony strikes hard and swift and confusion mounts as warmth infuses and peace encompasses. Has spring arrived?

A single leaf falls on the snow. A whisper of a selfless prayer.

“Please don’t let Grandma Agatha starve.”

Beneath billowing clouds

On a sunny day in spring,

Her tiny, fluttering presence

Flooded the scope

Of the garden -

Stealing in,

Wrapping ’round and filling

My heart

Like sunshine,

Dew on flowers,

And the lightest warmth

Of a breeze.

Softly, her wings

Whispered

In the spectrum

Of afternoon’s fading light,

Penning tales of enchantment

And illustrating pages

made of dreams.

I watched,

Mesmerized and enraptured

By her fairy like approach,

A fantasy not often witnessed

While ever sure

The spin of the earth

Paused, too -

In sheer wonder -

Much like the

Beat of my heart.