Terrence Moore Books
Bio
Stories (3/0)
A Memory
Street lights, squeaky screen doors, the sounds of voices echoing through the branches of ancient oaks. In a moment I am back there. It's not as much of a place as it is a time. A time when anything was possible and everything you could ever need or want was just a few footsteps off of the concrete steps that led from a front porch. I wonder sometimes if my children will think of this place in the same way that I do. Probably not, things are different now, home is different now. Everything is different now. Things don't smell the same, seasons don't feel the same, but I guess that's the nature of time. Once a time is gone it can never be again except for in those memories. I can remember the way it felt curled up in a chair beneath a blanket next to a roaring wood stove better than I can remember what I ate for breakfast. Maybe it's because I know that feeling will never be duplicated. They say that you can never go home again and in a way that's true. You can never revisit a time, once it has passed it can never be recaptured. So now home for me is just a memory, the street lights, squeaky screen doors and oak tree branches wrapped in the voices of the past and the fading shadows of a time and place that was but will never be again.
By Terrence Moore Books3 years ago in Poets
Learning Curve
It's definitely not as easy as it use to be, and it's certainly not as easy as people think. You'd think that after over twenty some odd years I'd be use to it or at least a little more accustom to it, but you'd be wrong. Every Monday is like the first Monday. When that alarm clock goes off at 5am and I roll over and see those numbers staring at me the first thought every time is, "Oh my God it's Monday again already." Weekends go by so much faster than they use to. Maybe that's because most of them are crammed full with all the things that you needed to do during the week but couldn't because of the hours that you work. Or it could be because you spend most of the day thinking about the fact that Monday is coming again really soon. Either way I get up and sit on the side of my bed, waiting for my eyes to adjust to either the light or the lack there of depending on the time of year.
By Terrence Moore Books3 years ago in Education
Beneath Still Waters
Laying in the dark, in the freezing cold, and damp grass near the glass like surface of the lake he prayed that the noises he was hearing were just the sound of wild animals. He could hear it growing closer and as he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the stars overhead his mind drifted back to the circumstances that led him to the fate that now seemed inevitable.
By Terrence Moore Books3 years ago in Fiction