The mris confirmed it; off to the intuition she must go.
She left behind her silvery, slippery fish pond; source of her strength and will.
Her brain became a rusted steam-punk collage of cogs and gears.
Within the sepia structured walls, she lacked the intellectual nuance to oil them.
She spoke only the same phrase: “She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.”
Saying Terry Pratchett dictated it to her; whispered it’s meaning in her ears at night.
More mris; into a solitary room without adornment. She was a danger. To whom or what, only she and Terry knew.
SOC based on instant response visions of the collage 39, mlmm Sunday prompt 240.
* “The good composed of all goods; an ability which suffices for living well; perfection in respect of virtue; resources sufficient for a living creature.” Attributed to Plato. Often defined as “a state of happiness” Wikipedia
February 5, 2018 at 3:14 pm
Yes the institution (as opposed to the “intuition” – see your first sentence) seemed very prominent to me as well, though my heroine’s fate seems far more fraught with peril.
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February 6, 2018 at 9:15 am
Thanks for pointing out one of those slips I make — writing a different word that I intended. I often think I should post those stories/poems with the subconscious words unedited.
I must go see how your heroine’s fate evolves!
Thanks so for stopping by!
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February 6, 2018 at 9:28 am
You’re welcome. I do the same thing all the time, no matter how many editing passes I make before hitting the “Publish” button.
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February 4, 2018 at 7:15 pm
mris I fear them coming….great take Lorraine, I like the connection to Pratchett as well, one of my favourite authors.
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February 4, 2018 at 8:59 pm
I survived and passed mris about four years running. Never found any thing wrong the first few times — just proved I still had a brain. Though one came back with the observation “surprised by the extreme early loss of brain cells” . . . ah, explains such a lot.
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