Red ladybugs, often made of wood or plastic, are the cheery ones. The dull brown ladybugs are the ones that bite. Born yesterday, uncelebrated and infused with the bright mindlessness of relentless summer, their hate is genuine; they wait on a pretty stalk for your bare arm. Your pain is their nectar.
October is the time of show-off leaves. Red ladybugs burn their own houses down. Ask one. She is her own child in the blaze, and to her, death is quite romantic. She loves you, without the slightest notion what that really means. They are as vacuous as lawn ornaments.
When waiting winter compels a choice, your heart will say, choose the brown ladybug, she knows your soul, even as she destroys it. Your sense says, choose the red, she'll make you happy. But no. You have decided and offer your arm.
Today at Dverse Prosery, Bjorn wants us to use a line from Bob Dylan's classic song "Desolation Row', a piece I have long admired, both for its lyrics and also for whoever that was playing the guitar counterpoint to each line. Bjorn instructs that we must use the line "To her, death is quite romantic" from this song. I will comply, (143 words)
Well....I enjoyed the read very much and learned something as well! For me, I'll let someone else's arm please the voracious one...I'll wear red enamel ladybug earrings through the winter!ReplyDelete
Oh I love this... and I think we have to make those choices because who really want to "It's better to burn out than to fade away." We stick to those brown, and maybe they stick to us.ReplyDelete
This is exquisitely drawn, Shay! 💘 We are often faced with the dilemma of making a choice... of choosing between two things... the brain forever contradicting with heart. And the choice, we make seems correct to us at that moment. Such is life. I think I will go for the red ladybug!ReplyDelete
I like your scientific take on the prompt! I did not know there were ladybugs that bite!!ReplyDelete
Then there are the magnetic ladybugs, one of which is stuck to my fridge. Red, my favorite color .. my choice.ReplyDelete
Oh, the choices we sometimes make. This was wonderful.ReplyDelete
I have never seen a brown ladybug. I learned some things with this poem. Cool.ReplyDelete
"She is her own child in the blaze," and "She loves you, without the slightest notion what that really means" are terrific. Dylan would have liked those lines!ReplyDelete
I so enjoyed your lesson in entomology, Shay! Here in the UK I’ve seen yellow ladybirds, as well as black with red spots, and the usual red with black, all in our garden, I’ve also been bitten by them – genuine hate, no doubt! We have a cheery one on our willow tree, large and made of metal. I love how you included the rhyme and the idea that ‘red ladybugs burn their own houses down’.ReplyDelete
Very original theme for this piece! I'd never have guessed ladybirds inspired so many fears.ReplyDelete
This is literally wonderful in every single way. Like a refreshing drink on a hot day. I just love it, Shay! (I didn't mean for all those lines to rhyme, lol) :-DReplyDelete
I love these lines: "Born yesterday, uncelebrated and infused with the bright mindlessness of relentless summer, their hate is genuine" and "October is the time of show-off leaves."
"They wait on a pretty stalk for your bare arm. Your pain is their nectar": The harsh inevitability of it all, made more so by the cataloguing tone, is deadly, madly fatalistic. And it bites. Wonderful writing as always, Shay.ReplyDelete
Prose at it's finest my friend! This is so true and deep as roots! We make our choice don't we? I absolutely love the thoughts that swirl here and the ending is brilliant Shay!ReplyDelete
As quoted above by others, this piece of prose rings out with the metaphors and images of poetry line by line. If I started to quote, the whole piece would end up here, with its Dylanesque sharp bite and its deceptively smooth duality, but I especially liked "..Born yesterday, uncelebrated and infused with the bright mindlessness of relentless summer..." and "vacuous as lawn ornaments." The contrast of not just light and shadow but truth and lies. Better real pain that carries meaning, than impersonal affection that goes nowhere. Or so I read. Excellent prose-poetry, Shay.ReplyDelete