They ask me why I walk alone in the snow. In the cold where no one else walks. Where the trees are bare and the moon is far.
They see only loneliness in the white.
But I cherish the snow. Those crystals glitter to me. The moon is sprinkled all around me. The trees are clothed in wind and stars.
Only in silence does the world speak. Only in stillness does the world move.
They ask me why I walk alone in the snow.
I ask them why they think I’m alone.
(Image courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo)
Written for Sue Vincent’s Writephoto Prompt: Untrodden
I’m restless tonight. It feels as if the very air is dancing. I try telling myself I won’t get the job. There were many other applicants. But the air particles don’t settle. Practicality will have to wait for tomorrow.
my dreams alight
with little promises
The stillness of your anger scares me. I’ve had anger before. It’s hot, it boils, it wants to come up through your being and into the world. But your anger has no movement. It has no heat. Its shape is unknown.
This anger is a deep part of your being. You hide it from the world. You hide it inside, where your soul is. The seal may crack one day, and you will enter this world. You will walk among us. I pray that day never comes.
I wonder if raindrops have shadows. Everything has a shadow. The rain must have a shadow too. I think I’ve seen rain shadows once, in my garden, but now I’m not sure. I look for them every time it rains. Mostly I see only light and water. But sometimes – in the grass, on a wall – I see them. Rain shadows. And I know they’re there.
I have always loved the gentleness of stars. They are sharp clear things, full of intensity, but they never puncture. They never tear. Their twinkle is soft. When I end up among them I shall be safe.
I try to see the ghost of yesterday. She doesn’t come. Not for me, anyway.
The window gives me a watercolour view of the garden, and yet the colours are missing, stolen. The trees are shadows in the grey. They stand stark and bare, unmoving. From somewhere water drips.
I turn back to my coffee. The steam warms my face.
losing you –
I don’t like it when they open the windows. Memories blow out. And memories are all this place has.
We lived here, slept here, played here. Those moments have faded with the centuries, but they remain. And as long as they remain, so do we.
Image: Alistair MacRobert via Unsplash.com
Written for Twittering Tales #86 – 29 May 2018
The parking lot was empty. It was full of cars just a minute ago. Andrew reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black object. “Blackwing to base,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I’ve found the interdimensional portal.”
Image by harutmovsisyan at Pixabay.com
Written for Twittering Tales #78 – 3 April 2018
The Last Rose of Babylon sat beneath the willow tree. All around her was a dream of emerald. Floating in this dream were butter-coloured lilies and daisies like fallen stars. The dying embers of sunshine glittered in her hair.
Oh but if it could last, she thought.
She knew it could not.
Tomorrow the Persians invade.
The time for gentle things was gone.
(Image courtesy of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie)
Written for Sunday Writing Prompt “It’s All in the Title”
There was always two of us. Two of us to share, two of us to compare, two of us to pick favourites with.
Until I pushed Addie down the stairs.
Then there was only one of us.
Image: Min An at Pexels.com
Written for Twittering Tale #77 – 27 March 2017