A Magpie Tale

Stone cold sober she sits.  Those who discover her corner asylum seem not to see past the wide eyed fear of one who defined boldness in her day.  Her fashionable “bobbed” hair combed in like a badge of honor; upon a head filled with possibilities of her new feminine freedoms. She was neither loved nor hated merely misunderstood during her time.

Jazz was her lover and the musicians her only friends.  While gangs of sharply dressed, well armored men sat stealthily in underground smoked filled rooms each imbibing upon his choice of forbidden poison she sang.

No one could imagine this carefree night that soon after such excess the wall would come crashing down.  This night prohibited such thoughts.  The lights lowered and she approached center stage.  The music cued and she froze. The sound was deafening as fire shot through her core.  Her life trickled down in a pool beneath her dreams yet the music played on through the night.   

Now long forgotten behind the curtain of time

The lady still sings her last song.