Jacqueline Shea
Bio
Hiya! I'm a writer who loves to learn about psychology, sustainability, mythology, and healthy living. Welcome to my stories :)
Stories (11/0)
Amor Vincit Omnia
Dear Terra, I gaze upon your curved form and wonder where we went wrong. We crafted these creatures of all sizes and dispositions; I emboldened them with rich lessons of caring and tending for you. Yet instead of rejuvenating life anew, they stew with one another, forgetting this truth.
By Jacqueline Shea11 months ago in Poets
The Voice
“Who are you?” The words echo in the waves as they flop onto the shore, briefly browning the sand before retreating back to the collective body of water. The fish continue their swimming, the palm trees their swaying, and the crabs their crawling. No one can identify where the voice comes from, or who she is addressing, but the birds sound their calls in response.
By Jacqueline Sheaabout a year ago in Fiction
Spectrum
the saltwater blew between green and indigo to mirror the sky
By Jacqueline Sheaabout a year ago in Poets
Bonnie and the Wolves
Mother always told me to beware of the barn owl. You see, in my old-school Anglican family, belief in animal symbolism rivals that of the pagans they claim to have spiritually superseded. A hummingbird means a happy day, and the sight of a bat leads to a two-hour interrogation from my parents about where I’ve been that week. I didn’t question it much growing up, probably because I didn’t know what Ms. Durham the front desk receptionist meant when she called my parents nuts for picking me up early whenever they received a bad omen (in my defense, they do have arguably almond-shaped faces and a last name to match!).
By Jacqueline Shea2 years ago in Fiction
The Olive Tree and the River
The soft sound of rushing water fills my ears as I take one last look toward the River Erne. I see a man in overalls and a long-sleeved red shirt standing knee-deep in the water with a fishing hook in hand, but other than that, she is empty and at peace. A small part of me yearns to run across the street and through the bushes to lay flat upon the river surface one more time, but I am already bundled up in my fleece sweater and the wool jacket Gráinne gifted me as a good-bye present.
By Jacqueline Shea2 years ago in Fiction
Drop the Ball
Dimmed lights from my grandmother’s small Christmas tree. The crunch of Snyder’s pretzel sticks between my teeth. Muted screams emitting from the voices of pedestrians packed into Times Square through the television, juxtaposed by our family’s quiet round of Apples to Apples on the large floral rug. These were the sensory indicators of New Year’s Eve growing up, when my three-generation trio—my mother, grandmother, and me—would come together, forgo dinner for snacks, and spend the night splitting our attention between board games and the four stations broadcasting live from New York City. After the ball drop signaled the East Coast New Year and my family went to bed, I would spend the last two hours until Arizona’s New Year alone in my room, dreaming up the possibilities of new beginnings from underneath the silk comforter in my grandmother’s guest bedroom.
By Jacqueline Shea2 years ago in Motivation