Our lives are written on a thousand slips of paper jostled and drowned in the foaming waves of a tempest. We float on the bubbles, too light and insignificant to notice the storm underneath. But sometimes, when we sleep, our fingers grasp the inky depths of the future.
My phone buzzes with a volley of text messages that light the darkened room with a harsh glow.
Angry, stubborn, brutal words paint the screen, each jockeying for precedence against each other. Sharp consonants and long vowels that extend innocuous words into a written curse.
They settle into my heart like a thousand cuts. Alone, they’d be a simple bruise that heals overnight. Together they leave leather scars amongst the other ties that bind me together.
And still, the phone buzzes.
There are truths buried so deep within the Earth that time has washed away all traces.
We are left with only the memories that reside in the dust of our souls.
Hand-stitched quilts and faded letters lay in the dusty boxes of my attic. The yellowed tape flakes when pulled open.
Fragmented memories flutter in the dust motes and cloud my mind like tangled wildflowers.
Your long fingers. Your knitting needle. Dried lavender. Rose gardens bereft with aphids.
The plastic smell of your favorite lawn chair.
Hair curlers and embroidered handkerchiefs.
You’re lost in time and space, but I have your nose and my daughter has your boisterous laugh, so somehow we found you, too.
And the blanket smells like lavender.
And your “L’s” look like mine.
Last night I talked to you in a dream.
Tonight your blanket lays on my bed because you were worried I was cold.
1920’s cozy fantasy WIP. Think Divine Rivals meets Indiana Jones in New York City. Name is open for suggestion.
A smudged morning sky
Makes me think of the bruises
You left on my soul
She was water.
With hair as smooth as sand and skin as incandescent as mist, her waves were fierce and wild, her wrath cold, and her depths immense. But the treasures laid deep within her azure folds kept her chest filled with voyagers vying for her love.
Skin of diamonds, shroud of black, and hair as silver as the moon.
He was the night.
He loved his Goddess. Adorning her neck with a hundred constellations, he soothed her tempests with delicate consistency. In return, she drowned his worries and quenched his thirst.
When her waters are calm, and his stars are bright, the two become one.
And that is where heaven lay.
Work in Progress. 1950’s historical fantasy thriller.
Time is neither backwards or forwards. It is not linear nor circular. It is at once a commodity and a construct, an innate sense of growth and experience and as fleeting as a hummingbird.
Time beats against the waves of youth, etching wrinkles like scars along our skin. We try to grasp it in filtered photographs and seven second clips filled with hashtags that only mar our memories and confuse our senses.
Time presses on. We float both forwards and backwards, inside out and upside down.
But we forget to simply exist.
Time flows like a stream; meandering ripples that sparkle in the sunlight.
Prisms of memories float through my mind. Your smile. My grief. Your struggles. My voice.
They glint in shades of chartreuse, teal, and gold, landing on my eyelids like falling snowflakes
Perfect moments, tinged violet in nostalgia.
How will you remember me?
Hipstory 