Revenge – Script – #13

Revenge – Script #13

Doctors looked down at the young girl in her drugged sleep; her pillow wet with tears shed before the medicine took effect placing her in a coma. Her face innocence even though she had lived a nightmare: she would sleep until her broken body and mind could heal. Her attacker had taken her for self-indulgence and pleasure. Andrew “Stubby” Bodine’s type was always on the prowl; always taking from others; especially young girls. He did see the angry mop coming in their flatboats. Mary Jane Ayres would heal while her abductor hangs from a Swamp Oak in Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Swamp.

Author Note: You have just read the beginning of my script, one page into a new book.


Earthly Cycles – #6




Earthly Cycles – #6

January was cold and depressing; it’s February, and until the sweet girls birthday is here; we do not celebrate it as we use to, as young girls they make more adult like plans, for me I just sit and remember those cherub face and hands.

February is drenched with the beginnings of winter thaw; two more sweet children celebrate while shivering in the cold. March rushes in with the winds drying the earth; getting ready for springs daffodils’, another sweet birthday comes and goes, like the sweet girl I use to cuddle and hold.

In April, the birds begin to sing bringing to life the flowers of May, sunny June comes another birthday, with it comes the longest day of the year that brings the winter lovers to tears. July is yet another birthday along with the scorched days of summer’s heat. In August the earth gives its children acres of corn, September comes the fruit the trees and vines have born.

October earth removes her summer cloaks as stars shoot across a November sky; the nights become long, cold with early frost. The strong December winds begin and soon comes, January the seasons have gone through their Earthly cycle with cold and snow all over again.

©elizabethannjohnsonmurphree #6



Dancing in Sunbeams – #5



Dancing in Sunbeams – #5

Rose could visualize the little country church, the chorus of Crows flying back and forth over the gabled roof; its white washed siding. The hand hued two-pin cabin stood alone at the edge of a pasture. Not too far away stood a row of Birch trees beside a shallow creek, winding its way through an open field green of Johnson grass. She pictured a group of black feathered Angels following a funeral hearse down the old dirt road. The rocker on the weathered porch of the cabin sat unmoving, the sun would be glowing through tattered curtains and dancing in the nearby cracked mirror. Rose felt empty and that childhood was dead as was her beloved Grandmother.




Death a Saving Grace…#2



Death, a Saving Grace

At dawn, the life light went out of the woman’s abused body, it lay in front of her the children she tried to protect…she was a mother, she was a woman, and she was a wife.

A coal oil lantern glowed against rustic rough boards, shadowing the fragile souls left behind in the damp shanty where, she was a mother, she was a woman, and she was a wife.

Laid to rest in a shallow grave in the Louisiana heat, dug by a man with moonshine seeping from his body; the moon glowed upon soft damp earth holding, what was once a mother, a woman, a wife.

Tears burn hot upon the dirt-streaked faces of her six children as relatives who heard the shots from the long arm barrel of hate ring out into the night took them to their homes, she was their mother, she was a woman, and she was wife.

Drunk with evil spewing from his tobacco-laced mouth the skeleton of a father had shot his wife, because she was pregnant again; she was a mother, she was a woman, and she was a wife.

No one will ever know beyond the borders of Bayou Gauche, that mother, woman, and wife will never return, her death for her, a saving grace.





The Journey – Friday – Day 18,2019

Wonderful simplicities are a means to keep the soul alive. I continue to exist year after year, as the heart continues on the journey to where it belongs. Attend to life’s garden reach for impossible dreams. I ask that my mind seek what it envisions, look beyond all of the tomorrows. I try to drink in the aromas of life hoping it will bring back memories that blossomed in life’s garden. Maybe I was too simple, as I do not believe that it kept my soul alive, it died with my child. Am I to forgive her being taken from me?







The Journey – Monday – Day 14, 2019…

The Ticking Clock…

A weathervane stilled under a glowing moon bares to the moon its raven wings, in predicted circles it swings. Fishing boats rise and fall behind the jetty wall, the old man mending his netting can hear the sea call.

Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman’s mind rushes like the tick of a clock. Time for one more catch before winter freezes the shore; the nets have taken too long, an overwhelming chore.

He sits remembering his world, its ghosts that the ocean has taken, the young men that God had forsaken. In the beginning the ancient winds brought the fish to earth, they filled the sea to give birth.

Our ancestor’s footsteps imprinted upon the pier, late in the night their sorrowful cries we can hear. Hurry, hurry the time is growing near, soon your boats will freeze in their moorings, the winter winds are what you should fear.

Look upward at the weathervane and its circular world, around and around it whirls. The daybreak will quickly be gone and you will ask God…where did I go wrong. Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman mind rushes like the tick of a clock.


AUTHOR’S NOTE: We cannot think about the “seasons” without bringing Mother Earth into the fold. She has served us well, beware she made not be here forever, be good to her.