Flamenco is Life

Estella fastened big silver hoops in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. At the base of her neck, her coal black hair coiled into a tight bun on one side, a large white rose pinned securely next to the bun. She smiled at the woman staring back at her. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. She stood, picking up the white shawl draped over the back of the chair and flipped it over her shoulder. The ends of the shawl trickled down the jet-black slip dress that skimmed her body. Without thinking, she flipped her foot moving the long-ruffled train that formed the bottom of the dress out of her way. She was ready.

Tension filled her, the expectation rising in her soul. This was the feeling she lived for. Estella left her dressing room the taps of her shoes clicking out a syncopated beat as she made her way to the stage. The muted sounds of Ramon’s guitar pulsated from behind the stage doors. Flinging the doors open the canción andalucia broke over her, swirled around her, beckoned her forward, promising so much more. The dancer finished in a flourish of zapateado perfectly timed with the culmination of the increasing tempo and the articulated legato of the guitar.

The crowd applauded as the breathless dancer bowed in appreciation then left the stage. Estella waited offstage as the notes echoed in her body, churning through her before they faded leaving a dull emptiness, a longing. She stepped onto the stage.

Head bowed, her body relaxed, she waited. Ramon picked the strings softly, tentatively releasing notes to wake her. The music touched her, sending shivers over her skin, but still she waited. The words of the canción gitana reached into her soul, calling to her ancestors. Her hand lifted flowing and rising with the swell of the music. Her toe tapped following the beat. The music instructed her, guided her body’s interpretation of the words. Emotions flashed across her face.

Her feet drilled into the floor, reverberating through the hall, pounding into other chests. The words told the story of lovers. Her shawl protected her from his smoldering glances, teased him with glimpses of his desire. Eyes locked, the intensity grew. She turned away, turning predator into prey. Transformed the shawl became the lover. Passion matched with passion, music quickened, breath quickened. Estella became the music, she was the song, the lover from the legend. The competition raced them towards the culmination. Her heart exploded, emotions boomed around the room.

Silence. It hung in the air. The jaleo was done.

Estella knew they wanted more.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Marion and Robin

They met as children; it was love at first sight. Heaven smiled on the match and created a love to last the ages. Together they made wishes and worked to make them real. The path they walked was never straight, but their love was true. There were days when the sun kissed their faces, and days when the rain fell hard upon their heads. When one wanted only to surrender, the other summoned strength and together they walked through life even when it wasn’t easy. Their courage allowed them to stand strong and upright when the road rose to challenge them.

Marion and Robin struggled up each steep hill and rejoiced when they attained the peak. Each step they climbed together brought them closer to the stars. Along the path, they discovered diamonds. They named each one and held them dear. Their love gave them a strong foundation on which to build their joy. Each of their experiences coalesced to become a sweet melody. It was the song they sang which kept them forever young.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Xenophile is not your average everyday word, but it is one that should be added to our repertoire.

Xenophile from Greek, from xeno- + -phile
Xeno: relating to a foreigner or foreigners, other; different in origin.
Phile: denoting fondness for a specified thing.

So, a Xenophile is a person who is attracted to foreign peoples, cultures, or customs.

You might be a Xenophile if:

10. Your favorite restaurant is whatever ethnic restaurant you haven’t eaten at yet this week. When you get there, you order off the menu in their language.

9. You spend months learning everything you can about a new place you plan to visit for a week.

8. You own and have watched every Rick Steve’s video ever produced and his travel guides line your bookshelves.

7. When you travel, you book the Airbnb furthest from all the tourist destinations.

6. You know enough other languages you can speak Spanish to the Kurdish street vendor in Turkey and make a new friend.

5. You know items called Boubou, Chamanto, Dirndl, Gele, Keffiyeh, Kimono, Lederhosen, Pashmina, Sari, Thawb, Ushanka and Welly and know when and where to wear each one.

4. A group of young men tell a joke and you laugh, not because you understand the joke (you don’t even speak their language) but because their camaraderie and their good nature infects you.

3. You embrace the customs and the rituals of the place you are visiting, by eating dinner at 10pm, showing up 15 minutes late, or slurping your noodles.

2. You value and respect the different people, cultures and traditions you learn about and experience.

1. You don’t understand hate because no matter how different we are, common threads connect us and bind us together.

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Jo Hawk The Writer

Golden Queen

Orla woke as the sun made her decent towards the horizon. This was her domain, the magic hour. She stretched, yawned and dressed in shimmering hues of blues, pinks, oranges and searing white-hot yellow. Her ensemble bathed her in a golden glow, accented by the velvety darkness of her gown’s train and the cloak that caressed her shoulders. Stepping into the woods the folk of the land greeted her with a silent salute as they too awoke and prepared for the night’s celebration.

It began as a low whisper, hesitant as it tested the waves of air. Another joined, answering the call, confirming the time. Orla nodded and smiled. Slowly at first the chorus grew, tentative while the sun still cast so strong a light. As each second passed the sun slipped closer to her reward, and the voices swelled, singing the sun to sleep. Brilliant rays streaked across the sky as the lullaby reached its crescendo, the sun’s goodnight kiss promised to return on the morrow.

The silver wand held high in Orla’s hand, captured the promise and made one of her own: to hold the light safe until the sun arose once more. Orla held the iridescence wand before her for all the folk to see. They rejoiced for now they were guardians of the light. The cheers ebbed into the dusk and Orla placed the wand into the sheath at her waist drawing her cloak around her.

The folk danced and sang with delight. In their exuberance, they burst into sparkling light, beacons rising with the breeze to float and flutter against a darkened sky. They drifted and frolicked cresting high above the trees lingering there to enjoy the view. Orla moved among the folk laughing at their antics, greeting each by name. She loved the folk, but each night at the nadir she thought of her sister and their oath. To protect the light, they agreed to a pact that would separate them, creating day and night. Each day her sister ruled, and Orla ruled the night. It was a sacrifice they endured to save the folk from those who no longer believed.

The folk never forgot, they never took the pact as their due. Each night they performed the ritual in reverence to their queen. They used their magic to bathe her in a light she could never see again. They helped her survive the hours until the break of dawn. In the morning, she would glimpse her sister and pass the light to her once more.

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Jo Hawk The Writer

I set out on a quest. A quest to find the Victorious. I entered today’s word with a preconceived idea of what I would find. What I found made me smile, the images lifted my heart and brought a tear to my eye. Today’s word more than any other is best revealed through pictures and not words.

I hope the images touch you and inspire you to find your victory today.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

His name evoked stories. Stories they called legend. The old timers swore the stories were true; Black Jack was the last of the real cowboys. Jessie learned the stories as a girl. They captivated her and she always wanted more. She asked everyone who would talk to her, to tell her the stories of Black Jack. Over the years, she had collected and memorized each one.

Today she had found the last clue, the last piece of the puzzle she needed to prove the truth. Jessie put a large box and her camera in the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel of her old red pickup. It would be a long trip. Jessie drove for miles, out into the middle of nowhere to where the court records showed an old ranch. The records said the title had transferred long ago to the last living heir. Jessie knew the heir was Black Jack.

Jessie pulled off the road and looked at the surrounding land. There was no road, no house, only rolling land. She pulled the copy of the plat from the box and studied it. The plat showed over two hundred acres, with creeks and the major roads, but nothing else. She couldn’t fail, she had to find his house. Jessie smiled and grabbed her phone. The GPS homed in on her position and she scanned the satellite image trying to correlate what she was seeing to the features marked on the plat.

There. She saw a cabin, a barn and another small structure. Jessie marked the spot on the plat. There weren’t any roads or trails which meant she was hiking the rest of the way. She pulled her pack out of the back and filled it with the contents of the box and her camera. If she hurried she would be there before dark.

The sun was setting. Jessie heard a shotgun being cocked in the woods ahead. She stopped and peered up at the ridge. There she saw a man half obscured in the trees.

“State your business,” a voice called.

“My names Jessie and I’m looking for Black Jack.” Jessie waited, but even after several moments there was no response.

“I just want to talk. They tell stories about you and I want to know if they’re true.”

The woods were still. Jessie peered into the gathering dusk. She thought he still stood in the trees but she couldn’t be sure.

“Jack?”

The dark form of a man stepped into the clearing in front of her, the shotgun still pointed in her direction.

“Jack? Like I said, I just want to talk. It’s getting dark and my trucks parked back on the road.”

“Come on then,” the gravelly voice called. He released the firing mechanism on the shotgun, dropped the gun into the crook of his elbow and turning walked off without another word.

“Thank you, Jack. I appreciate it,” Jessie called as she half ran to catch up with him.

Jack continued in silence, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, not missing a step.

Jessie grinned as she hurried to keep up with the old man. Tonight, she was determined to get the answers to her questions.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daphne ran through the forest, nimbly skipping over protruding tree roots, skimming under low hanging branches, zigging and zagging as she ran. No matter how fast she ran, or how elusive the maneuvers she performed the man pursuing her kept pace. He seemed he might catch her. He could not catch her. Daphne’s mind raced faster than her feet, trying to find her escape. If he caught her, he would take her most prized possession, the one she intended to keep, the one she had sworn she would protect.

Something moved a short distance in front of her. She veered to avoid contact, but it moved with her. Through the leaves, she saw a face she recognized, Cupid. She screamed when he raised his bow and aimed it at her. Cupid didn’t waver his bow followed her then slowed, he shifted his aim to her pursuer and let the arrow fly. Daphne heard the impact, but he didn’t cry out, instead he only ran faster. Her eyes searched the forest for Cupid, who smiled wryly, and bowed with a flourish. Daphne, betrayed.

Closer now, Daphne knew it was only moments until the predator captured his prey. Her strength spent, fearing her future, she cried out once more to implore the power of Peneus her father.

“Destroy the beauty that has injured me, or change the body that destroys my life.”*

No sooner had the words escaped her lips, than her feet extended tendrils into the soil. The breath of her pursuer hot upon her neck, his hand reaching, nearly touching her hip, she screamed in silence. His hands would never touch her soft, supple skin, only the layer of bark growing to encase her, to protect her. Her fingers sprouted leaves, her arms became branches, her flowing hair shimmered with leaves as her forward progress, twisted and turned, rooting her to the ground where she made her final plea.

Transformed, her treasure safe, the beauty of Daphne reinterpreted as laurel. Still her pursuer wanted more. He laced her leaves into a wreath he wore upon his head and from laurel wood he fashioned his lute and his bow. He vowed that as his tree she would be evergreen.

The laurel bent her boughs and acquiesced to her defeat.

*Ovid. Metamorphoses.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer