In my grandmother’s hope chest, I come across a photo for which I have no meaning–thread spools and a diary. Continue reading
I was doing okay
preparing my way
saying meditative thoughts Continue reading
Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting Friday Fictioneers.
The hotel on the canal is the ugliest establishment I’ve ever seen, but when we enter the dilapidated lobby, a Guatemalan woman is singing Sinatra’s “Oh, Look at Me Now.” I squeeze John’s hand. Serendipity. He smirks. Continue reading
The words for Stream of Consciousness Saturday are: In other words.
In other words, take my hand…
Are we sculpted by our choices?
This boy. I took his hand when I was fourteen, we made love when we were sixteen, he left me when we were nineteen for glittering lights and fame although he loved me. Continue reading
Written in response to the black and white challenge offer by Charli Mills’ @ Carrot Ranch.
Until I was eighteen, I was Dad’s favorite. By focusing on my music, becoming the best mandolinist in the three states, I pursued Dad’s ambition, which had been squelched by pragmatic parents. Continue reading
It’s been awhile since I’ve visited Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back. Thank you, Alistair!
In those days the air was combustible, ions churning, light fragmenting into auroras that blazed through night’s boundless sky, laughter sweet, gentle like soft blossom petals falling. Continue reading
She thinks she’s living a milestone, not understanding he’s into games, love treated with strategy. While she’s kissing, he’s rounding bases. Until he scores.
Sascha Darlington 1/21/2018