Lydia Jones
Stories (3/0)
Carved in the Stars
I like the idea of self-determination— that I alone carry the power to form my human destiny. I balk at the idea of fate, or the thought that my personality might have somehow been shaped by something as simple as the month in which I was born. I cherish the idea of making my own way, of carving the story of my life into stone— chip by chip.
By Lydia Jones3 years ago in Psyche
Where we plant the milkweed seeds its poison also grows
I’ve been keeping other people’s secrets all my life. I don’t know why people tell me things, but they do. Maybe ‘cause I’m good at listening. I’m a quiet listener. Just like how I’m quiet now, walking through the forest up in this little corner of Appalachia that I was born in— that I’m still stuck in.
By Lydia Jones3 years ago in Criminal
Hope and Igor
It was a crisp February day in Slovenia, and my friends and I stood at the edge of the glacial lake in the small town of Bled. We were resting at a ferry dock where a Pletna was tied off, a flat-bottomed, shiny wooden boat with a canopied cover. Only two other people, a couple, were in line in front of us.
By Lydia Jones3 years ago in Humans