Because I was born with a disability, I was never able to keep up with my peers, so I spent most of my time reading and dreaming. Dreaming more than anything. From those dreams, stories emerged, and so began my love affair with writing.
The house is dying. Water leaks in, Down into the walls, Causing slow decay. Withering cold air currents Slip in through cracks.
The Sand Dark Sea
In that moment, with the sun against her cheek and the wind furious in her hair, she became more than just that morning. She became my every morning. Dasha was not one of those women who could stop you in your tracks, but if you did stop for a second glance, you would see beyond the wilt of the sun and the red bite of the wind. Like the dark blue in the deeper parts of the southern seas, her eyes would catch you and hold you. Her face was round and kind, the succulent beauty typified by Florentine visual expression, not the bone juts and hard lines of a runway culture. She was hearty and strong like the country of her birth. For me, others before, and others to come, Norway had always been a place of far northern mystique.
Their heavy boots leave dire marks Upon the cracked, crumbling earth. A field of sun hardened mud Stretches endlessly before them.
“Mama, my shoes is killing me,” Marcus moaned. His big toe, protected only by a threadbare sock, rubbed viciously against an exposed seam at the tip of his shoe, and there was a pinching sensation at his instep. His mother, a large and stoic woman, did not stop. She didn’t even slow down. Having already raised three boys and one girl, she had little patience for complaints.
Sunshine, though immeasurable, Can be such a small thing, When you live in the space Between twilight and dawn. In darkness, you come undone