Friday Fictioneers-Peace and Fireflies

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Dawn was Dylan’s hangover, for she treasured the dark. In the mornings, she missed the crackling of embers from a bonfire, sparklers lit just for fun, and the catching of fireflies in a Mason jar.

In her country home, she’d finally found peace. With that realization you’d think she’d found a love to share it with. Instead, she’d found it in her grandchildren, the scent of fresh brewed coffee, and wildflowers growing in her side yard.

Coffee in hand, Dylan sat on the back porch step. Morning washed over her, while she unscrewed the lid and let the fireflies go.

100 Words/Genre: I have NO idea

Thank you  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is an honor and a privilege to have Ms. Rochelle critique my work. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.

I welcome kudos and criticism. Seriously, rip it up if you want.

 

The Sand Beneath My Feet

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Wrapped in a bright yellow sarong, I light the doorway of my ramshackle hut. The sun is beginning to brighten the sky and I can see the magnificence of my morning view. There it is,  my bliss. My light. My life. I carry a freshly cut piece of coconut in my left hand. The white milk drips and is sticky on my fingers. I lift it to my mouth and bite at the chalky sweetness and chew slowly.

Waves crash and my heartbeat flutters. The constant motion of the sea makes me giddy. It’s like the hustle and bustle of city life without being constantly run into by people. All of them on some kind of mission. Going nowhere, but everywhere. All at the same damn time as me.

But here, I’ve a feeling of unmitigated peace. My smile is as radiant as the bronze color of my skin and the blonde shimmer in my hair.

My family can’t quite believe that I made the transition, but where else would a budding novelist go? The feel of sand beneath my feet is finer than any red carpet that I could ever wish to walk on.

The wind picks up strands of hair that have fallen from the messy pile that I’ve carelessly placed upon my head. Sea spray settles on my sun dappled nose and cheeks.  I glide my tongue along my bottom lip and taste the tang of salt and whisper, ‘I’m home.’

Meggie teases that my freckles are age spots, but I don’t care. I’ll keep wearing sunscreen and pray that I keep aging gracefully. Who am I kidding? I will age, whither and die. It’s inevitable, and a necessary part of life. Until then I’ll write a story, or 1000 of them. However many I can.

I wend my way to my favorite spot, where I pray for inspiration and understanding. I lay pen to paper and let the words rush out of me. While all around me the waves tumble, seagulls call, winds blow and my heart soars.

A Chilly and Rainy Morning on South University

Rainy Morning South University

Last winter, as I stepped out the door of my local Starbucks I stopped and took in the surroundings of the street where my office is located. It was early. About 7:45 a.m. The air was damp and chilly, but I didn’t notice. All I saw was, my city. I grew up here. Roamed the streets as a young wild child and drank illegally in as many bars as I could. My old haunts are all closed now. Or the names have changed. That’s neither here nor there. What I want to write about, is how I felt that morning….

With my trusty iPhone at the ready, I captured a moment in time. I’ll never get it back, but I’ll remember what it felt like to stand outside on a dreary morning. I was happy. Smiling from ear to ear, because of story I’d written. Or a text I’d received. Or maybe, I was just happy to be alive and employed.

There were paper plates strewn all over the sidewalk from the folks that closed the bars at 2:00 a.m. I can imagine them, standing there. Holding pizza in their hands and wobbling from the beer they’d consumed at the Brown Jug or the Blue Leprechaun. One should experience closing time on Central Campus at least once in their lives. I would now, but I’m sure the young people would look at me and think I was a freak for intruding on their ritual. I’m in bed before midnight most of the time now anyway.

The trees were illuminated with Christmas lights, but it was long after the holiday. It tickled me to see them though. I can’t explain why. I could hear the crackle of electricity in the air. The constant humming gave me a kind of inner peace. It’s something that I seek every day. In the few moments I stood in the street, I felt it. I think I even owned it. Then it was gone.

Shaken from my reverie, I checked the time on my phone. It was getting late and I needed to make my way to my office, just a few blocks away. I placed the phone in my bra and began to walk down the sidewalk (yes, it does make my boob look square, but I’ve no where else to put the damn thing). I needed to focus on work and real life.

Fortunately, I get to take a few moments every morning and take in the beauty that is South University. Even with litter strewn about, I still love it.

(My words have been lost lately, due to a myriad of things going on in my life. Please stick with me my sweets. I promise to be back in rare form soon. I might even say the F word from time to time.)

Words Surround Me

I’m surrounded by words.

They float above me.

I pluck them gingerly from my heart, soul, mind and body.

If they escape before I can clutch them to my heart, I grieve like a lost child.

Sometimes they envelop me in softness and light.

Other times they are suffocating and render me unable to function.

I lose myself in them. Time speeds up, slows; diminishes.

I extend every part of my psyche to capture them and pound away at my keyboard till my fingers are bloody.

Words keep me alive.

Yet there are parts of me that die after I’ve written.

Whatever the subject was has escaped, and been given a life of its own.

By making its way out of my body, it helps me move on.

Or to become completely lost.

Enraptured.

Words are everything and nothing.

All at the same time.

I’ve been asked if they ever stop.

No. They don’t.

It makes a brain crazy sometimes.

I become exhausted by their motion and their weight on my heart and my mind.

I pray they never stop.

I want my reader to feel the way I did when I wrote them.

I pray that they help me find peace, enlightenment and tranquility.

Freedom.

For if they do that for me, imagine what they will do for my reader….

~You surround me like a circle~