Edward Palmer
Stories (2/0)
A fine line
ThirdEye Memory 134437: We’re standing on the beach, huddled under the thatched pagoda. Diane and I are alone. Her long black hair is wrapped round her face and lashes her mouth, as the wind rushes past us, fleeing the oncoming storm. She brushes strands from her eyes as we watch the thick, dark clouds grind towards us, and wait for the inevitable deluge. We both jump as the first crash of thunder reaches us, heralded by a forked strike of lightning out at sea. Our shelter seems to shake with the noise and heavy rain drops begin to fall. The smell of charged ozone blends with the musty wetness of the rain on the beach and nearby roads. She huddles close to me, partly from the cold, partly from fear but mostly, as she told me later, because she saw an opportunity. I tell her I love her for the first time.
By Edward Palmer5 months ago in Fiction
A Matter of Perspective
Jay-Z and Alicia Keys sing of concrete jungles where dreams are made of. If so, then cemeteries must be the jungles where those dreams end. Like most people I see the value in closure that funerals give us, but cemeteries themselves have never provided that release. A landscape of completed lives commemorated through stones and plaques had seemed relevant solely as a historical curiosity, but my perceptions had changed since I received terrible news about my uncle. A visit to Centennial Park, south of Adelaide in South Australia where he was buried, seemed necessary.
By Edward Palmer5 months ago in Humans
