Stella set the letter right side up. She didn’t care who read it. Leave them guessing. Besides, her leaving work was nobody’s business. Of course everybody suspected something.
She had banked holiday time. Perhaps she’d head south and work on her tan. Kitty, her friend in Orange County, had a small apartment. “Hop on a flight to Los Angeles,” she had said, “I’ll take you to a few parties, introduce you ’round town.”
Stella waited as Kitty paused to exhale, “My new man-” She could practically smell the smoke and see the ring.
“He’s an actor.”
Orange County was an option. To hell with Roy. He can hire a temp secretary. She didn’t give a hoot. Let him figure it out. Sunshine and the odd cocktail party might be a remedy for her blues.
Stella placed the dust cover on top of her typewriter and lifted her purse from the drawer. She loosened the scarf around her neck and draped it over her hair, knotting the ends. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she’d escape before the others arrived at the office.
She is an angel in a hurricane
Her wings- hard scrabbled grace
I can not turn away.
~ Benevolence Is An Angel
She stood in the storm and let
the rain wash the dusty memories from her soul
There is a hush within the edges of time. If one listens, one can feel it.
It is early dawn and I am easy, not required to be anything people think I should be. There are no demands placed upon my time. Within this pause, I imagine the gift of another day, open to whatever magic it may bring.
Silence is my church. It is where I do my deepest work. As the stars lean in to listen, I spill my holiest thoughts. Morning shines like a beacon of hope.
I worship the margins of time. There is room to rest as the simplest of moments begin and turn each day. It is where I find clarity.
~ and some days this is how I find the inspiration to write. Black coffee and Peggy Lee, hon.
A paragraph from a scene titled, Do Right. The setting is a fictional locale – Ardua Pier- where things happen
Truth lies in a dream.
The dull blast of a horn signaled a ship entering port. He listened as waves lapped against the pylons. The high-pitched sound of a woman’s laughter rang from the neighbouring sugar factory. From a warehouse loft, somewhere high above the hillside, a violin’s music serenaded the stars.
Life is ever-changing, he thought, like the sea: calm and smooth, violent and rough. He yearned for a moment between struggle and triumph, a respite.
The hum of a car’s finely tuned engine interrupted his thoughts. He shivered and turned. Shielding his eyes from the glare of headlights, he watched as Rummy’s Cadillac inched closer to the bridge on the pier.
Photo Credit: unsplashed- Danielle Dobson
With a trust so gentle
Her skirt, a whispered rustle
Her presence, like an old friend
To edge me back to morning
New rain softens the window pane
A drop fell on the Cherry tree
Sent to kiss the earth
And blur the memory of a dream
I had lingered too long, within
~ draft scene
Early morning sunlight crept in through the open window and kissed her on the shoulder.
He watched her sleep. Studied each soft inhale and exhale of breath, traced a lock of hair across the pillowcase. The hair she refused to cut. Her signature, a self-styled rebellion against time and fashion mores.
Light crept across the bed, unveiling her face in real- time. She was his June with December’s eyes. He touched the scar beneath her chin and counted each freckle, long faded.
Time had caught him by surprise; he’d not seen himself growing older. Certainly, he had not seen her coming. It wasn’t supposed to play out this way. Now all he wanted was to absorb her into oblivion.
Life could be a lonely act. How fast it goes. As seasons changed, he’d buried his father, then his mother, and cheated on his wives. Like the tease of spring, she had tip- toed into his life, the odds stacked against her.
He’d warned. ” I carry a full bag.”
“Unpack,” she said.
Their future was uncertain. He knew this truth: she was hard to crush.
When they question your worth
Take a breath.
A sisterhood of women stand with you.
You’re a Queen.
The daughter of painters and writers
Worn mothers, posh aunts
Star crossed lovers
Saints and sinners
Warriors with roses
Stitched by the hand of a missionary’s grace
Her tapestry forged with iron and lace
Fragile yet strong
Our thread never breaks.
When they ask, ‘Who do you think you are?‘
Raise your head and smile.
~warriors and roses