Writer. Feminist. Historian. Person.
Molly watched and wondered. Mama always told her it was for the best. They weren’t really captives. It was for protection. They’d hurt themselves or others if they were free. But still, Molly wondered. Were they happy? Sad? Were they envious? Did they know they weren’t free? Or was mama right and they didn’t even… Continue reading For the Best
future paths unknown obscured by the veil of time still, we dare to live Image credit: Eric Muhr@Unsplash Thanks to Sadje's WDYS Challenge for the beautiful inspiration.
Susan felt like a fool. It was 1977 not 1957. My god, she was a liberated woman! How could she fall for his line? Stupid! But, still, she stayed. Remembering. Champagne. His voice in her ear. “I can’t tell you where I’m going but meet me here on Christmas Eve.” Stupid! Did she think… Continue reading but, still (or the magic door)
Time has lost all meaning. Had it been one year? Twenty years? One hundred? More? She had stopped trying to count the days long ago. But she had believed--really believed--she'd be able to note the seasons. Hoping to mark the years. Imagining she’d be able to picture their faces as time passed. She had wanted… Continue reading Time
Rising from the sea Autumn’s sun turns the sky red as the palm trees sleep Thanks for the inspiration to Frank Tassone's Fall themed haiku challenge and to Travel Talk's Sunrise Challenge.
I am thrilled that once again Freya has chosen some of my work for her haiku challenge. Our inspiration was Elisa Choi Ang's beautiful Dancing Goddess painting. Please give it read (as well as the other chosen works) Pure Haiku
dawn shines her first light and Monday’s child, fair of face, casts her eyes downward Obviously my little haiku owes a thanks to the unknown writer of this 19th century children’s poem: Monday's child is fair of face Tuesday's child is full of grace Wednesday's child is full of woe Thursday's child has far to… Continue reading Monday’s Child
Three days. It had been three days since they delivered the box. Technically, three days, four hours, and 37 minutes. But who’s counting. She knew he was there. The gate squeaked. It had been over two weeks since he’d left. Technically 15 days, three hours, and 22 minutes. But who’s counting. Or 14 days, 21… Continue reading Who’s Counting
no more comic books or picturing his first shave no more sneaking drinks or pretending not to hear two ten main street is no more Thanks to Fandango for the thought-provoking photo. It reminded me of the sad Covid-19 reality that some things may never come back. Not sure why my mind went to barbershops, but… Continue reading his first barber
“That’s effing awesome!” “Language.” “But ma. The diner car is up in the air.” Resisting the temptation to go easy, she suppressed a smile. “Don’t ‘but ma’ me young man. I’m tired and you know your dad doesn’t have any patience for your stories. Get your book. It’s math time.” “But ma!” “No buts!… Continue reading Day Three
Tina Stewart Brakebill 