God and I work hand in hand in the garden. I pile the leaves he rots to soil, I sow the seeds he blesses with life. I add the water, he the sun, and we wait together. While we wait, we turn to the dying. He lets me know who is ready to go, and I give things a little push. He slows things down, I speed it up. When the flowers bloom, we rejoice. Afterwards, I collect the seeds, and add the bodies to the compost heap he blesses with decay. In the winter, we stay busy, waiting.
About the Creator
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More stories from Hannah Moore and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Damsel
The princess didn't need rescuing, but the knight rescued her anyway. Her father wept as she entered the throne room, and her mother, overcome, swooned and was hastened to her chamber. The knight was smitten, and expected her hand. He pined for his love from the dark of the dungeon. For her part, she thought no more of him, as she plotted first her father’s poisoning, then the burning of the villages in neighbouring lands, and parties where she roasted deserters on the spit and served them to their regiments. The knight went on loving her in darkness.
By Hannah Moore11 months ago in Fiction
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Come with me and you will see a world of pure humiliation. As the school bell sounded loudly throughout the modern structure, reverberating off the walls, ceilings and floors as armies of students rushed to their classrooms, one stood out, even from afar.
By Paul Stewart7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
So poet. Love it 🥰