isthecoporami
Bio
Alaska - 20 - PNW
Stories (6/0)
They Say the Sky
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. My father said it had been abandoned for decades, the cluster of structure that sat in the gorge of the mountains - sharp and brooding and finely tuned to the nature that had crept into its walls. Trees and thorns and vines twisted in the cracks of the cobbled stone, through the shattered windows and dilapidated roofing. It was the dragons’ valley, quiet and still, night after night, snowed-in during the winter and flooded in the summer, tentatively observed by the people in the mountains. They would peek out behind their curtains at night, yellow firelight flooding in from behind them, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of something from across the distance. Curiosity and fear combined into inaction, a lifetime of us watching each other through windows. It became something of a comfort to me, a mirror up in the mountains that I could see my reflection in, something small and something kindred.
By isthecoporami2 years ago in Fiction
A Giant Ball of Yarn
If you’re anything like me, it’s easy to spend too much time in your head. It's easy to come up with grand scenarios, these wild fantasies about what life could be like in two year’s, five year’s time. Easy to have in rotation a list of amazing expectations of what could be possible with the right amount of hard work and determination.
By isthecoporami2 years ago in Journal
A Thousand Words
It was a fine thing, living in the city. It was an even finer thing living away from it. Her apartment was warm and smelled like fresh bread, the windows were closed and frosting in the sunset. She took her oven mitts off and brought the plants from the windowsill onto the carpeted floor. The painting on her wall was the opposite of her apartment - a small gentle house, resting on layers of packed snow with trees dotted in the background. No colors but the green of the pines, the white snow, and the yellow light from the windows.
By isthecoporami2 years ago in Fiction
In April
APRIL, 2010 Drew gently takes the cello from the corner where it’s been resting against the wall, carries it with him and carefully sits down on the kitchen chair, dragged out in front of the closed window. The cello is dusty and dirty, sitting untouched for so many months, but he leans the neck against his shoulder and takes a deep breath, letting his head fall.
By isthecoporami2 years ago in Fiction