Pink Sticky Notes
Everyone who stepped foot in Ashley and Henry Roberts’ home was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of colour and the riot of small pieces of paper on every available surface. Ashley had everything categorized-- blue for things she needed to buy, yellow for something a friend had said that was important, orange for things she needed to do, green for addresses and emails and phone numbers, and pink for very important things that she wanted to remember.
Marigold Miller wasn’t a girl you forgot easily, not because of any special charm, or special beauty, or a good heart that shone through or anything.
He sensed it there, in the water. Beating. Calling to him. The beauty, perfection of its scent permeated his nostrils, carried and turned him, slow and sinuous, in its direction.
The Moulding of a Writer
The starting point for most great creative artists is in their childhood, when through an act of brilliance, a moment of pure creativity, hours of genius committing themselves to their craft at an age when diapers drooped ‘round their ankles, parents turned to each other and said, “Wow! Our child could change the world!”
The official name for them was “The ones below” but humanity being humanity wasn’t inclined to use official names of things that are unpleasant. More commonly they were called Pit-dwellers. The Alices of Wonderland. Hellwalkers. Worms, 500 footers, and a host of other titles declining in politeness. Even news anchors sometimes slipped up and called them one of these. You could watch the videos on YouTube.
It was dark and cozy and comfortable. He-- for it would be a he-- never wanted to leave. The space, though not very big, seemed enormous for something as small as he was. He could push off the walls-- springy, like trampolines-- and float dreamily, thinking of nothing, wondering about everything, waiting for his coming birthday.