When you held out a hand to stop me, I protested. I wanted to get away from the taunts and jeers as quickly as possible and panicked when you not only ignored my protests, but grabbed my shoulder and turned me around to face my tormentors.
I feel your loss most keenly in those moments between sleeping and waking, when dreams have not quite given way to my new, bleak reality and my mind tricks me into thinking that you are still by my side.
I don’t remember much about that morning, because I was only six years old. I do remember that the lady policewoman gave me a lollipop, an orange flavoured one, to distract me from the fact that mother couldn’t stop crying.
It was the kind of day where the sky cannot make up its mind, when nervous clouds try to stand up to the weakened midwinter sun but still struggle against his inate might, when finally their prayers were answered.
New sort of prompt! This appeared on one of my personal social media feeds as a writing prompt. Never done a writing prompt from a pic before, was fun! Nice, short one: Continue reading
I regret that evening every single day. If I could turn back the clock, I would, of course I would. The look on your face when I turned away for the final time, to follow my new, cool ‘friends’ to the party is forever etched in my memory.
I still remember when you held me in your arms, both of us illuminated by a full, bright moon determined to show us the best possible versions of ourselves. I was at once the most powerful and the most vulnerable creature in this world. Sometimes I still visit the tiny island where I felt your lips on my neck for the first time, and I can feel them still, a faint ghostly tingling as I turn my face towards the night sky, hoping, praying, that my home did not claim your life as my family insists. That I will see you, an unexpected surprise on the sand, mooring a boat with your head tossed back in careless laughter. But I have not seen you for almost twelve full cycles of that moon, now, and whenever I hear the waves crash against the rocks on particularly stormy nights, hope slips a little further out of reach from my heart. Continue reading
For me, the myriad of classic colours that marks the transition from summer to winter is a beauty seldom rivalled. The crunch of curling leaves underfoot and the faint fragrance of a far-off bonfire whilst walking under a canopy of branches decked in auburn, scarlet, and burnt orange is autumn at its best. Add the charm of soft golden light, dappled by uncertain clouds, for a scene worthy of capturing on canvas.
Wrote this one in quite sleepy state. Just Spring left now then will have to turn my hand to the ‘bad’ side of the seasons at some point…I am gonna find this hard!
Thanks for stopping by 🙂
There are few things as soothing to the soul as sitting on green grass in warm sunshine, not a care in the world, lazily watching cotton-wool clouds drift idly across an azure sky. If this scene is accompanied by a faint breeze infused with fragrant honeysuckle, the gentle lapping of a conveniently situated stream and a plentiful supply of cooling refreshments, then one is most likely close to experiencing the perfect summer’s day.
I’m reading an Austen novel at the moment. Who else finds whatever they’re reading influences how they’re writing?
Thanks for stopping by 🙂
When the screaming wind is finally replaced by the sweet embrace of silence, when the snow comes to settle and the land is cloaked in a pristine whiteness rivalling the best artist’s canvas, that is the time of winter I like best. The air is achingly cold but still, and every breath is filled with the fresh scent of pines and a promise that all storms eventually come to pass, leaving behind a chance to start anew.
Asked my brother for an idea and he said ‘the crispness of a winter morning’ so I did the above. Will try to do shorts for the other seasons too 🙂
Thanks for stopping by.