It lay,
A thin blanket over vibrant late summer.
Silent white, still as death,
Satisfying in its containment.
It lay,
A thin blanket over vibrant late summer.
Silent white, still as death,
Satisfying in its containment.
Heather clicked the radio buttons, desperate for a station that didn’t play classic rock. She snuck a shocked glance at Mom, behind the wheel, as MGMT’s “Little Dark Age” floated from the speakers.
Mom said nothing, minuscule smile quirking her lips. One point, Mom. Continue reading
“How many times are you going to bring that up?”
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“Oh, but that look.”
“I wasn’t looking at you.”
“But you were thinking of me, weren’t you?”
“Because you stepped on my heel.” Continue reading
Stepping back, Nora tipped her head, listening to the bright voices within the subterranean waterfall. They wove in and out, considering the words and images she’d already painted on the cave’s rock wall, and stopped on a questioning note, awaiting further input. Continue reading
We come down the winding stone stairs in two groups of three, hands cupped to steady the splash and flicker of fragrant oil lamps. The deeper we go, the louder the rush and roll of the underground river flowing through the apothecary. Here is where the souls of the Mothers slow for the earthly; here is where appeals to heal scars from ill deeds are most likely granted.
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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