Throughout the Millenium, the Ishatucknee Lakes have been a haven for writers, poets, and creatives of all time have been know to flock to- inspired by the sense of wonder in the varying weather there or the utter loneliness of the place. The lake was amazing beautiful because of the way the water reflected the light of the sun towards the flowers and tree that grew in its wake. They couldn’t quit...
Ever since the ecoism movement, cities were so quiet. The bustle of cars halted to the fainter footfalls of pedestrians. The hum of generators and crashes of cranes non-existing. And in the sounds that did exist the calls of pedestrians, the melodies leaking out from doors - the stream of trees and brush atop the buildings and through streets absorbed this noise, creating a damp loom over the worl...
Giggling in excitement I rip open the brown wrapping paper in anticipation of the surprise. I assumed the gift was from my uncle - a mysterious man who now lived in the Alaska wilderness. Although I hadn’t seen him for a decade, he sent me a present every year - last year a book of drawing I’m still trying to decode the year before a crossword that I haven’t worked through completely. But alas, I ...
The chatter of feeble conversations soothed her ears and the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee comforted her. The window poured light onto her table - warming her hands and allowing her to watch the golden glow open the buildings. She was sitting in the corner of her favorite cafe from high school - college loomed over her years and she hadn't been here since freshman year. Old friendships f...
“Aaron”, they told me. “Aaron,” the nurses reminded as they wrote the letters on a whiteboard in front of my bed. “Aaron,” the woman who came to visit lovingly called as she walked into the room.
I took the name in my mouth, moved my lips and my tounge to echo the sounds. But, my voice always tripped at the harsh cadence of the word, finding no familiarity in the sound. The writing on the board r...
Walking, strolling, moving,
He stalks in the night,
Not a scream to be heard
Nor a sound to fright.
One foot in front of the other,
Night after night.
Sleeting, snowing, pouring,
He treks through the streets,
Droplets dance in the sky,
Surrounding his umbrella they spurred.
Yet they never touch him,
Night after night.
Weeping, sobbing, begging,
He carries the dead in his arms,
Tears seep through...
I’ve never been good at packing. Piles of clothes and accessories are strewn about the floor surrounding an overflowing suitcase and my kneeling posture. I fumble around before I pick out a few last minute things from the haystacks of items: my father’s old camera and a leather bound journal. I shove the items into the suitcase and fight to smother the top closed.
“Mama,” my daughter joyfully cal...
