“Life was as delicate as the paper held in her hand.” Lessons learned… from what was found in the old trunk.
Head still down, she looked at the vines that started under the dead leaves lying before her. Following the green of their winding on the trees that lined the path brought her eyes up, climbing their height as the vines did. They were life; growing infinitesimally and breathing as she looked at them. And as her head lifted she saw in the distance an opening through the trees at the crest of the hill she’d labored to climb but was only halfway there.
On Monday August 30, 1993, I got the call I do remember. Shock is too thin a word. The hardest hit to the most sensitive part of a man doesn’t come close to conveying how I felt when my brother told me my mother had shot herself. She was only 61.
As you get older, your experiences… the paths you’ve walked in life… all you know and have become (and what or who made you that way) rest in your memories. They sleep… but they’re there, yes they are and sometimes they’re lively and churn around. A sound, a smell, a picture; some little thing shakes […]
Nightfall brought a different wind, one stripped of the day’s heat, coming off the water beyond the sunbaked beach below. I breathed deep, drawing the freshness, its tang–that scent of where the ocean meets a foreign land–into my lungs. An exotic aroma that always teased the possibilities of evenings in a seaport… and that sometimes […]
I had seen her a few times. What she was doing in this hole wasn’t my business. But she didn’t fit in. Nice clothes; her face, an un-inked ivory oval framed by dark hair, caught the dim lights in the bar. Eye’s that if the light was better would have probably been a bright blue. And curves; the kind to make a train jump the tracks. Distracting, follow her every move just to see things shift under her clothes, kind of curves.
Began writing mid-January 2018; just passed the 72,000-word mark. Historical fiction (my fourth story/project in the genre) for publication Spring 2019.
The man sat on the patio chair and watched Petunia play with her string of beads large and small. She’d grab them and run across the yard, look back at him to make sure he was watching, then take off again… a pale pink streak with them streaming behind her like an optimistic kite tail […]
A little warm-up writing (draft) from this morning’s coffee… (spurred by this image and a ‘mock’ cover I created that could one day be a real story). Spring had died, drowned by the climbing mercury in the giant thermometer on the brick wall of Tilson’s bar she could see by day in rising and fading […]
With a sigh she didn’t realize had come from her… she stooped to fill her jug.