|
Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
|
15 For 15 Entries ~ January 2011 #716453 added January 25, 2011 at 4:02pm
Restrictions: None
Jan 25 ~ Wings
The day he was released from prison, Michael Morgan went straight to the cemetery.
No one had told him where the plot was exactly, so he walked up and down acres of grassy aisles. The names of dead folks passed under his searching eyes, like the broken white line in the center of a desert highway disappears beneath a lonely car.
It was hot. Hot as hell. Sweat stung his eyes, pasted his only button-down shirt against his back. He finally stopped and looked up. Gray granite dotted the landscape to the horizon in all directions. Michael dragged the back of his hand across his forehead.
One tree stood in the sea of tombstones. He made his way to it.
There, in its shade, he found it. Found her. His little girl. His Lynette.
He swooned, the heat suddenly seeming more intense despite the tree's protection from the sun. The air sweltered before him, shimmered with a light of its own. His heart pounded, caught in a vice of pain pressing his chest. Pin-pricks of light burst before his eyes, swirling and sparkling, then gathered, gathered, gathered together. A form began to take shape.
Michael stared, wide-eyed, breathless. Before him, the form of a lovely young woman bobbed before him. She was dark-haired, like Lynette had been. Her eyes remained closed, like she was asleep, but delicate paper-thin wings beat a slow tempo. Michael squinted. The shape of her face...the pout of her lips...he knew them.
And if Lynette were still here, she would have been about the same age.
Then the wings beat faster, and the woman spun, slowly at first, then faster. Her long brown hair wrapped around her, cloaked her, and she started to shrink. Her legs, arms, torso, diminished, aged-in-reverse, back to her childhood. And then he recognized her for sure. Lynette, healthy. Before. Before ...
The child's eyes shot open. Her face pulled into a grimace, baring sharp teeth.
Michael yelled out. He tried to step back, but lost his footing. Twisting, he fell hard, slamming his head against the tombstone.
Blood from a gash on his head splattered the inscription:
Lynette Morgan 1984-1988.
Brought to rest at the merciful hand of her father. |
© Copyright 2011 NickiD89 (UN: heftynicki at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
NickiD89 has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
