Captured
By Ruth V Jarvis
You were just a voice.
A few lines of text,
well more than just a few.
But, it was a novelty.
*
I drove the winding lanes,
with my get out word.
A call fifteen minutes in.
My risky moment.
*
I wore scent,
a silk scarf,
and left the stupid shoes
behind, for dignities sake.
*
I left the past behind,
as I closed the car door.
Hesitating, thoughts
pressing, yet engaging.
*
The sky had blessed
me with her blue,
pure, and the soft breeze,
encouraging. Encouragable.
*
The bar hummed
as I entered.
There you were.
Pure as blue.
*
Greeting simple.
Eyes honest.
Capturing something...
something I had never
________________let go of before.
*
I caught my breath in your arms,
as the world slowed,
and the light around me reflected
a galaxy of time.
*
And you,
you are
still here.
Pure blue.
_______For I left the past behind.
About the Creator
Ruth V Jarvis
Ruth is a writer of script, poetry, creative non-fiction and fiction.
Her series of short stories Tales from Boldover Street are situated in post world war 2 Britain and uses magic realism to reveal the personal battles of trauma narrative.
Keep reading
More stories from Ruth V Jarvis and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Covid Diaries Pt 2
It's a blue moon, apparently. It’s Halloween, apparently, and it's pissing down; nothing new there then. The washing machine is doing its duty. Masks, not the spooky kind, need cleaning if any semblance of the day is to be maintained. I have registered a need for a fresh supply of underwear daily but somehow don't seem to be able to grasp this new concept. The world is almost at a point of covering every orifice to make human contact possible.
By Ruth V Jarvis2 years ago in Fiction
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.