She was full of birdsong at sunrise

written notes, long conversation

a sin and a prayer

the scent of cut lemon and crushed rose

Seventies rock and shuffling blues

With a little bit of save the world

And I loved her for all that she thought she wasn’t

~cashmere and cotton

as the sun slipped behind a cloud

and the sky faded to dark

she leaned into the porch swing, lit a cigarette,

closed her eyes,

and whispered his name


She believed in more. More time to wonder, to imagine possibility in an ordinary moment. To believe in two strangers on a crowded street, the unfamiliar hand that reaches to hold a door, one certain glance.

Everything had changed yet she knew. His eyes looked like home.

She’s Pretty!
Rescued from the curb.
A fresh coat of ‘Tin Can White’ Chalk Paint (Behr).
A fresh cover.

And sometimes you forget

the sun will shine

the seasons will change

sad times won’t last

and you-

you will always have my hand to hold

“People don’t think as you do.”

“I know no other way.”

“Then carry a shield,” she said. “Soft hearts bruise.”


Our stars crossed long before we met. From faraway I’d heard her heart beating, felt her skin on mine. Anna Bellerose. Every breeze and twig snap had me turn.

“Two souls tangled in time,” the townsfolk said. Others murmured, “Damned” and spit upon the ground.

A single thread entwined our destiny. Controlled on a loom, the silk was measured and cut by the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

Goddesses. At night, they stood in the heart of the forest, long robes lit by moonlight. Hands held, they circled and sang. Silvery notes chorused heavenward. Even the stars winked back.

In one moment, three women had proclaimed eternal law, a steel trust that sealed our submission. The stories of two lives were to play out without obstruction. Their magic art would drag me across territories, to leave me standing on a snow covered doorstep.

Winterland.

“Old souls,” the keeper said, as he led me to a darkened room.

Anna stood beneath a broken chandelier, trapped in the shadow of a single memory. Her face, a moon in a well to wish upon, her crooked crown, from a fairytale. On a table lay an open book.

I knew the tale. Spoken words locked in time had already pinned me to the page.

She turned to me.

I met her with a smile.

TBC

Winterland

YA Draft

She is drowning in a tsunami of emotion.

His presence reminds her of something quiet and treacherous: the first snow fall. A system enters unannounced. The world softens. For a moment, everything seems extraordinary.

Hidden undercover is plain truth. Perhaps he isn’t what she imagines him to be. Behind his faraway eyes, she hears the whispers of hard scrabble stories not meant for her ears. The voices go low, suggest regret.  His pull is magnetic; his push, cold.

Together, they are on a collision course.

 

She had shared a mention of his troubles with her mother. He’d assured her that change was in the works. The upkeep of two homes was a nightmare.

“Of course, he’d say that,” her mother said, “To you.”

The words bit.

 

  • opening a chapter- draft (Pronouns used in place of ‘names’ for post.)
  • Narrator’s POV, character’s POV

 

She said,

“I pity you. Your heart has turned to stone. Stone hearts must be guarded, polished, and held forever. Breathe. Exhale the battles, regrets, the unyielding memories. Trust again.”

The streets are quiet

~ cityscapes

prequel app

apple

Photograph: Anne Watson

Music: Mansionair

He was like a steamship coursing an endless sea, always traveling somewhere else. Far away and faded from distance and memory to reappear on a winter’s morning.

All I’d ever wanted was for him to stay awhile. He’d drop anchor having found his home in me. We’d find joy as hoarfrost turned to blossoms.

In truth, we were lovers snatching moments. Memories danced from projector to wall. Each clip a scene. In one: a café in Barfleur. The next: a foray through a hidden bookshop. As we  lifted the jacket of an all but forgotten ‘Emma,’ history rose dusty and reminiscent of bourbon and oak.

Desire is a fickle mistress. Once more, I’d wake to discover he’d left.

The Letter

Cilla

~draft

Allow me to share a site I love to read: Harvesting Hecate. Andrea is a beautiful writer.

https://harvestinghecate.wordpress.com

Author: Andrea Stephenson

The Art of Trying

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Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

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A storyteller who writes and scribbles, and calls it art.

MovieBabble

The Casual Way to Discuss Movies

MyStoriesWithMusic

GETTING CREATIVE- combining my short stories with the music I make (read the story and you’ll find the song), making audio stories (for those of you who prefer to listen), posts about my music, poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), throwing in some quotes for inspiration and sometimes I try to draw something too (not very successfully I might add) 😊.

The Sound Sniffer

Sniffing out the best new music

A R C H I P E L A G A L

islands and in between

SCENTS MEMORY

Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.

Goal Digger

Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...

Sauce Box

Never get lost in the Sauce

SKYLARITY

Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes

Corkboards and Coffee Houses

Reflections on Writing

Bonkers

Is there no way out of the mind? Of lazy litanies and trying to make sense on the way down the rabbit's hole...

Your sentence here.

Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

Sabiscuit's Catalog

I can't eat biscuits, but I have a better idea ...

HeartSphere

Conversations with the Heartmind

At Koko's Place

Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...

deepspiritleading

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Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

almost 99.9% books not sold, but I strive for perfection..samples to interest you in my books which contain even better poetry - https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

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