On the shortest day I take the longest run between one jetty and the next and back again in the shortest time, rest myself against the rump of a dune while the waves whisper sea shanties. “O what shall we do with the drunken sailor?” A mermaid rises near the shore shaking her wild, wild hair in the sun-drenched breeze until spotting me she coyly slips beneath the water. The jetty wades a little deeper into the sea to catch a glimpse. On the shortest day I tell the tallest of tales.
–––––––––– “I was dissastisfied with this as a mere fantasy piece but when I added the flash fiction ending, it energized the piece for me.” – the writer
Everyone hunts for perfect gems. While I reflect on perfectly flawed stones. Precious ones. Handsomely jaded Jaspers. Once mine. Somehow lost along life’s journey. Priceless jewels from the sands of my past.
Taken for Granite
I might not have glitter, but I do have a mine of sparkling memories. My dreams may never manifest, but I relish my rocky reality. Maybe the key to finding happiness was valuing all the diamonds I took for granite.
–––––––––– Angela Moore “loves writing because it’s a powerful way to convey emotion.”
Before the moment when the cloud cleared I had no idea how blue the sky was, no idea how silvery the rain though I’d felt it many times falling gently or fierce as a cataract after a storm and I’d searched my memory and my imagination to find how they were coloured. Before the moment when the cloud cleared from my eyes and tears spilled like cataracts, I had no clear idea.
–––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
Sepia photographs and inky signatures are a testament to how much of yesterday remains – a sliver of a day, a wisp of a moment caught at the edges of Time’s barbed skirt, displayed amongst other almost-broken relics, dust collected and withering beneath the modern light.
How tragic it is, that so many days and hours spent in joy and bliss fade away into the void after yesterday, to be tampered and reworked by our minds, to slowly slip past us and away, away into the darkness and the silence, into the never-ending nothingness – the abyss.
––––––––––– “As a teenager, I write as it is an outlet for my energy – for all the emotions I cannot express elsewhere.” – the writer
When I need to capture her creative spirit, I wear one of Mom’s rings or bracelets, especially her favorites. I remember her small hands and wrists, straight fingers with slightly enlarged joints, arms that hugged tight.
She wore a ring crafted from a sterling silver spoon handle, wrapped around her finger, I discovered it hidden under a jumble of costume jewelry. She bought it, as I recall, at an arts and crafts festival in New England.
Now I share her taste, collecting beaded bracelets, and rings of twisted, braided silver, mounted with gems of earth tones, reminding me of her.
–––––––––– “I write to describe my feelings, experiences, and relationships.” – the writer
I wonder if you ever knew how much I needed you. I was adrift, listing, destined to capsize. A series of storms and turbulent waters caused damage to my mooring. The sky was darkened, unreadable. I was unable to find the markers I so desperately needed to right my vessel. Deep water terrified me, but I was destined for it—until you. It was no accident, it was Divine intervention. God knew I needed you. To get me back on course, back to what was right. Despite the injuries, most unseen, you were the driving force that righted my life.
––––––––––– “I’ve recently started writing to stitch some of my past together, like a quilt.” – the writer