Category: tiny stories

My sister asked, “Do you remember that morning at the beach?”
 How could I  forget?
A memory of us. Two children lost in fantasy, tiny feet dancing as the ocean kissed the sand. Accidental twins, our small bodies snuggled in white hoodies.
“You took a stick and drew a huge circle,” she said,
I remember.
“I drew a circle to protect us.”
I see her step inside the circle. She is careful not to smudge the rounded edges.
The circle was our make shift island. A sanctuary, both too young to appreciate, paused moments are fleeting. We didn’t know of danger.
The universe knew. Two sprites and a majestic sea. Brave and shivering as the winds blew. A shipwrecked dinghy, marooned on the sand. Their stick, an oar.
It was as if our mere survival depended on circles.
Circles were everywhere throughout our world. We scampered through dense forests, our hard backs kissed by a honeyed sun. When night fell, two wolf pups mapped the stars and howled beneath a buttery moon.
We studied planets. Ever curious, our questions wheeled with ‘whys.’ Never sure, we chased certainty’s tail, passionate in our quest for truth.
We embraced circles. In the 70’s it was mandalas, knotted bandanas about our heads, and bracelets upon our wrists. We drove cars round blocks, cities, and countries, always to circle back home.
We are all circles.  The whorls on our fingertips, the irises of our eyes, our DNA cells, to the egg that gave us life.
 She asked, “Will life break us apart?”
“Never,” I said. ” If we drift apart, we’re returned by centrifugal force and universal law. Our fingers, forever tangled by an invisible thread that binds.”
She reaches for my hand.
Our circle is strong.

Hearts

Cut my heart

It bleeds stronger

Dripping rubies to cement

 

Play my heart

It beats dulcet harmonies

Infusing rust and gold

 

Wound my heart

I take a stand

Your silent storm no more

 

Didn’t you know?

 

My heart is fierce

Ancestral, brave and true

Inked by fire’s light: to blood

 

 

 

 

Rebel Soul

You have winter in your soul

I watch you.

Your story, silenced
By monsters
That prey in the light

I know you.

Forged by Love and Loss
A rebel soul
Cut down

I feel you.

Your scotch taped heart
Pressed against my chest
Drums a warrior’s cry

I love you.

Believe in heroes
Hold my hand
Together, we’ll charm their dark

Spring is just round the corner

~ enchanted

3 a.m.

There is beauty to her darkness

A night-time thing

Lit up

Beneath a moon strewn garden

Of tangled roses and thyme

A Cashmere Queen

Stone still, she reigns

Her once beating heart, silenced

 

There was another time

Of windswept words that splashed like water

To cool the burn that seared my skin

 

I glanced away and she was gone

 

Yet this is now

She stands, stone still

Words tattooed across a shoulder

“Auribus Teneo Lupum”

and everything I had ever lost, is found

tangled in roses and thyme.

~ The Boy Next Door; The Cashmere Queen

 

 

Storms

 

He was my storm

I was his shelter

He, with dagger and compass

I, with torn heart

Stood stone still

A bringer of darkness

I was his light

Shipwrecked and broken

I picked his ruins

Salvaged the grit and the glass

He shivered from fever

I lit the fire

As he dreamed of ships in the night

Of sirens and seas, of pirates and plunder

I polished his pieces, held shards to light

Disturbed and addicted to Aigaios’ charm,

He swanned in the clutches of tempests

I swayed with symphony and sound

He was my storm

I was his shelter

Or was it the other way round?

 

~ Oceans and Storms

 

The sultry voice of a woman filled the small room. Notes rose, hit the ceiling, dropped. Words teased and enchanted as they wrapped humanity. “The High Priestess of Soul” punched the tiny kitchen with passion and spirit, nestled herself into every corner, tucked inside each drawer.

Absorbed in the magic, he forgot last night, forgot time. The notes brought dignity into the room. He bowed, gripped the counter and let his troubles slip off bone.

~ Maybe Love Will Save Us

Layers

~ vintage blanket
~ vintage blanket

 

It snowed this weekend and the world became just a bit more enchanted. Layers of water and ice glistened over the street. Ribbons of snowflakes tumbled and bedecked the boughs beyond my window. Lights twinkled, evermore bright, as darkness dropped a veil atop the blanket of white. A hush settled upon the land. The world was beautiful to behold.

I’ve learned to look closely, to appreciate the layers of a life.

Everything layers. The snow that buries treasure. The cut pine boughs that house an errant spider. The branch of Winterberries that feed the birds. The words we write; the silences we keep.

Look closely.

My eyes scan the room to view a mother’s treasured sideboard. Once it stood stained and polished, waiting for Sunday. On that sacred day, she’d set out the silver and china serving dishes. Her best effort. And we would celebrate family.

Look closely.

A patina of paint and wax covers the oak sideboard. The top sanded, the edges worn. The silver stands in a cast iron urn, a twist on up cycling.  The china serving bowls rarely make an appearance. I see the candle burning down. A daughter’s attempt to hold on, let go, to illuminate the night.

Look closely.

My fingers lift a gilded frame. The sepia photograph is of a woman. I trace her portrait.  She is standing on a deck, leaning against a railing, looking out to sea. Dressed in her finest clothing, her fingertips hold a hat. A lady always wears a hat. She was a believer in proper etiquette. Beyond her rolls the Atlantic.

Look closely.

I recall her eyes, shades of indigo grey. Behind their depth is another layer. Doubt. I imagine her pausing, pondering, “Should I leave England?” I dust off worry and discover bravery. Carefully, I lift another layer to expose joy ~ he is waiting for her to cross an ocean.  On another continent, he goes about his life, planning, constructing, beholden to a dream.

Look closely.

A certain magic fills the room. A whispered breeze kisses my forehead. I see my Grandmother; she is still beautiful. Time has gently taken its toll. Her once bright eyes have paled. They  glimmer, wet pools of faded blue. Her finest dress, threadbare. A pin of pearls is elegantly placed beneath the collar of her blouse.  Beside her armchair a weathered curtain hangs, the faded Irish lace rustles.

Look closely.

Everything is layered, weathered, chipped, cracked and broken. Be still. Pay attention to the forgotten. It is within glorious imperfection that we find beauty. Lift the layers gently, see beyond the cracks. Everything and everyone has a story to tell. The magic of the world works in whispers. You only need a heart that feels to see the wonder that surrounds us.