Pink Dogwood Photograph by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-FerrisBradford Pear Tree Photograph by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-FerrisBradford Pear Tree Photograph by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-FerrisBradford Pear Tree at Dusk Photograph by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-FerrisRaven Tree Photograph by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris
He would be gone three months, he said. Four at the most. Not really so long, he said. Four months at sea, away from me, by choice.
A sail of a lifetime to be sure. Filled with daily challenges, adventures, bonding with family, testing his skill as the skipper of a large, privately owned sailing vessel. His days consisting of open water, ports of call, exotic landscapes and free roaming wildlife. His nights packed full of rivalry, drink, wine, good food and companionship. No time for missing anyone back home, her or me certainly.
A difficult relationship made more so by distance, prior commitments and life, now made excruciatingly impossible for me, left at home, alone. Day upon day of abject loneliness, an alone he has not and will never experience. A week goes by of talking only to the dogs, if I remember to talk at all. Each night a torment, watching the hours tick by in agonizing slow-motion. Even the minute hand dragging as though mired in molasses.
Sleepless nights turn into restless days. Isolation and desolation eating away at an already damaged heart. Body craving the touch of another. A caress, a hug, a smile or a kiss. Aging comes quicker now, mortality a very real threat for either of us. Wondering if this will be our last goodbye.
The church bells rang out, stopping on the eleventh gong. Crowds were gathering in the street outside, a light rain fell keeping the ever present dust confined, but only a bit.
Horses whinnied, hushed voices rose, muffled by the block walls separating me, from them. The window too high to see through, only letting in the meager light of wavering torches held in the hands of my accusers.
I dozed. Guards roughly pulled me to my feet, walked me out into the night. It was time. I’d do it again. I was not sorry.
To turn emotion into a word, an experience into a sentence and a life into a story; that is a literary artist. Peering into the unseeable, deciphering hidden messages, unraveling puzzles into a stream of aesthetic words pleasing to both reader and writer.
To be a conduit, a messenger. To bring reverence to the wonders of the Earth. To stir fascination, acceptance and protection about the myriad cultures this world has emanated. To exalt over our majestic animal species and keep their plight alive within the human conscience. To continue to be my best. A writer. A literary artist.
Alejandro rode quickly upon his magnificent white steed. The river behind him had turned white, signifying an early Mountain snow melt. Soon the river would overflow its banks and would most certainly, wipe away his village.
He donned his black mask, pulling back on the horse’s reigns. The white beauty reared up on his back legs, his front legs kicked high. As soon as his hooves hit the dry ground beneath him, he stretched out into a full run.
The masked man barreled into the village, yelling to anyone he could see, telling them to run. The villagers raced to the highest cliff where they watched their homes and meager businesses being washed away.
One of the men turned to Alejandro and thanked him profusely, then asked, “To whom do we owe our lives masked one?”
The horse reared again. The man’s voice rang out clear and true,
Gypsie’s Wonderful World of Words 