The freedom fighter

it started with small freedoms:

the freedom of pressing the snooze button

the freedom of letting your hair down and letting it be

the freedom of stretching and unbuttoning

the freedom of the last little bite and the first sip

the freedom of humming to yourself.

but soon she set her sights on greater targets:

the freedom of going unwashed for a day or two

the freedom of tearing up traffic fines

the freedom of unconventional punctuation (...!)

the freedom of spontaneous dancing, lucid dreaming and random acting.

stealthily and with impressive prowess, the freedom fighter got to all of them.

she managed to rob you of ("liberate you from") every smile, song,

glance and idea that you'd freely express.

and you realized that she would not stop

you saw "Operation CATS" printed in bold in her mission statement:

Choice, Access, Thought and Speech - she would fight them until the very end.

she knew what's best for you, after all.

the audience member

her face is obscured, a halo of sepia.  but you can see her, she knows.  there is a connection between you, of course.  you've touched her, and you can feel the blush in her hands left by the applause.  the audience member never leaves (you) - she is still there, in the third row, on the left, long after the room has grown dim and awkward with its emptiness.  she protects you from its blank stare, her gaze a puppyish spotlight following you wherever you may go.  she is there in the shadows, keeping you a-lit, and she knows you can see her too.

the violinist

she wears vintage dresses.  every day she irons them into classic symphonies. so she tends to leave notes everywhere.  at night she can't sleep because her sheets are covered in music.