She sighs, runs knobby fingers through graying hair. The increasingly wiry strands slide silky still through veined hands, and she smooths them down, twisting them into a tight knot just above the nape of her neck. Surveying the scatterings of UPS boxes, packed a little heavy for professional movers, she wonders at how a woman’s entire life can be reduced to the wreck and rubble before her.
Or not. Continue reading
Source: Rawpixel LTD/Flickr
The polished gemstone was arranged
To stand atop the sheet of foil
To yield clarity,
All his best lights gleaming. Continue reading
[This appears to be number 3 in a series that began with “Time 5”, which also ended another series “Time 1-5”. Patience please: just feeling my way along.]
He swore he’d loved her from the moment she first emerged from the ocean, dark hair streaming darker, glittering sea foam sluicing down her lithe young body; perhaps it was merely a vision of their future, because it was more than a decade later when first they spoke. Continue reading
The midsummer sun meant an extra long day, and she and Horse had easily traversed the rocky field, pausing at the liminal space where diamond-sharp stream burst through dense curtain of darkest forest; they would not enter at night. Continue reading
The rocky field lies still, cut open by glacial streams, edged by heavy forest. Further north, mountains beckon, tops occluded in weeping clouds. Continue reading
A fog-locked boat, lost in Superior shipping lanes,
Radar reflectors hung high on mast and wide on boom,
Churns in a stomach-grinding corkscrew of wave.
You haven’t eaten for weeks. Continue reading
© Ayr/Gray
Citronella (Part 1)
Citronella leaned over the balcony and sighed, staring down at the village parti-gras. Before, she’d been content to lean on the iron parapet, separate from the mad goings-on below. Before, she’d been satisfied with her mother’s witchy warnings of the dangers of joining the sweaty rabble. Before, she’d felt empowered by her choice of who she’d let climb her long, golden braid to the top floor. She’d lived there for as long as she could remember.
*** Continue reading
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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