Cristina Petersen
Bio
Loving artist and writer. Applied Linguist. I teach for a living. Some have told me the human spirit is the greatest canvas upon which to work. I wish to dream big and share my creativity. I want to write stories from my heart and soul.
Stories (6/0)
Absurdities
Following arrows Sanitized grocery cart A mask on my face.
By Cristina Petersenabout a year ago in Poets
Breathless Planet
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But at that moment, Zaiya was screaming into her pillow. Knowing her roommate Leanne would cajole her if she heard, Zaiya stopped. Lifting her tear-streamed face up from the pillow, she gasped recycled air for a brief moment. Out the tiny round window, space loomed. The space station had been orbiting Mars for two years now, with multiple trips to its barren land. Zaiya had spent her entire life training to be on this journey, giving up all semblance of “normal” life back on Earth. She had breezed through high school, earning scholarships and attending MIT at the age of 18, graduating at 22. She had done an internship with NASA for six grueling months, landing a job here on the SpaceX Station 10. It was 2042, and life in space was becoming a common occurrence for anyone with a science major.
By Cristina Petersen2 years ago in Fiction
The Happiest Memory
Someone recently asked me, "What is my happiest memory?" As in most or absolute best? As in “stands out as the one and only time I was happier than anything EVER”? Can one really answer that question? To take a lifetime of happy memories and reduce them to ONE event that stands out in the mind as the pinnacle of life? Where should I begin? Is it a fleeting moment of peace? Or a story told over and over to friends over campfires? Or is it the whimsical images we keep in our minds of loved ones lost?
By Cristina Petersen2 years ago in Longevity
Cargo "Pants" - The Formosan Mountain Dog
I am writing this story a mere two and half weeks after my dearest furry friend Cargo, aka, Cargo Pants, Mr. Pants, Lover Pup, Bud Bud, Buddy, my boy… passed away on January 7th, 2022. So needless to say, writing about him is cathartic. I just painted a picture of him too. He was almost 13 years old. He came into my life on November 9th, 2010. I happened to find him by pure timing and luck. I mean, how many people rescue dogs from Taiwan and bring them to Canada? I had seen an ad in Granville Island in Vancouver on the bulletin board for another dog, the same breed, a Formosan Mountain Dog. I had never seen this kind of dog before. I quickly inquired about this dog, but it had been adopted already. But not to fear! The person I spoke to said, “Oh we have many more dogs! Please check out our website, Ocean Dog Rescue.”
By Cristina Petersen2 years ago in Petlife
The Barn Owl Omen
Unable to sleep, Jenny sat up in bed, looked at the old GE alarm clock and swung her legs out from under the covers. It was 4:00 am, on the dot. The air was cool as the furnace was off at night and the light from the street filtered through the thick beige curtain. As her eyes adjusted, she got up and walked into the kitchen, feeling the worn oak flooring beneath her toes. Her husband Ted lay sound asleep without a stir, with his arms above his head - Like someone who had a gun pointed at him… She had the same old familiar feeling of unrest, like she was waiting for a train that was late, or she was looking at an unopened important letter, feeling as if a there were a swinging gate in the breeze, waiting for a passerby to latch it shut.
By Cristina Petersen2 years ago in Fiction
