“… a poke of light to crack the horizon’s stoic shell…”

The storm had passed. And every last remnant was fading faster than two hearts could imagine. Forgiveness came in hushed whispers of the heart. Yet memory reminded, that hind-sight was alright if it provided a lesson. He learned the hard way. He always learned the hard way.

The early bird did indeed get the spoils, as work and its toils became the obligation to end his lack of motivation. Settled under the covers until the nagging need to proceed overwhelmed him, Will’s feet finally kicked free of flannel confinement. Poking aimlessly with pointed toes in search of his slippers, the call of the wild overcame him to fore go the footwear to traipse across the tile’s frozen tundra for relief.

Will had this belief that his days mirrored the mood of his early waking moments. Often tense and hectic, he picked a bad day to give caffeine the finger and lingered with his orange juice a bit too long. His thoughts previewed the day ahead. He dreaded his Monday meetings, he had over-scheduled his clients, squeezing two lunch dates into his incredibly shrinking day. Travel tumbler clutched and briefcase under his elbow, Will started for the office.

A text buzzed his phone. He didn’t reach for it. The tone said it was urgent. It didn’t matter. Will drove toward the complex.

The stretch of Highway was relatively clear this time of morning. It seemed this corner of the world had been untouched my human interference. Off to his left in a clearance of trees, it began. A glimmer first; a poke of light to crack the horizon’s stoic shell. Edging skyward, It rose in rapid progression. Will’s indiscretion would set the stage for a great day. He pulled off to park and watched the rapid rise of a new day dawning. He sat fawning over it’s beauty, and out of duty to his heart, he called her.

“Good Morning Sunshine!” he began. “I saw this incredible sunrise on my way in this morning.It reminded me so much of you!”

A mumble; sleepy, sexy, nearly incoherent – it was laced with her heart.

“I love you very much” she finally broadcast in her warm comfort.

“I love you very much, too!” Will repeated passionately. It was going to be a fabulous day!



PencilpageShe held her ledgers closely, as if protecting their contents from prying eyes. But how can history stay hidden? She wanted the world to learn what life had been before the conflagration. But she had forgotten one important fact. A far as she knew, she was the only survivor.

They had called her “Historian”. That was a name that carried great import. And since the Great Truth Purge, Reconstruction history was punishable by death. Little did that matter now, but the Historian held ethics in high regard.

She had a sudden pain in her head, a stirring of thought in the guise of a memory. It needed to be recorded. She went to the case mounted on the wall. Sliding the glass panel to the left she exposed the object of her office. It was a primitive instrument unearthed in the battle. She held it in as much reverence as the ledger clutched to her chest. She had found mention of it in the earliest pages. It was referred to as a “pencil”.

She handled it gingerly; the tip of the nib was fragile. She knew that once it had deteriorated beyond usefulness, all history would cease. She was frugal with her words. She was not ready to die.


(Via Photobucket: o0puppylvr0o)

“She leaned against the wall, arms extended and supporting her diminutive frame.”


Monique was at her wits end. They had taken everything of any value to her. All she was left, was her dignity, these four walls and the need to dance. The music played internally; a melody that has played there since her birth. From the squalor of her broken home to the lofty stages upon which she played, Monique was her own star. She shined brightly, no matter what Francois had to say.

He tried to consume her; to control and demean her. But she was strong enough to not allow that to happen. She had it all. And now she had nothing. The spindly waif struggled with her demons. She leaned against the wall, arms extended and supporting her diminutive frame. The muscles in her back eased; her calf muscles tightened. Monique tossed her head back, whipping her abundant curls across her shoulders, falling back into place in tight ringlets of hope. Heels lifted and her body pulsed.

The music inside was cacophonous. Dancing had commenced. Monique was free!



 Astride her bicycle, she had set out to offer her goodness to ease the pains of the darkness.

“Astride her bicycle, she had set out to offer her goodness to ease the pains of the darkness.”

Jacqueline reeked of purity.

Her existence was of one purpose. She wanted to be looked upon as the fairest in the land. For in this sick and confused world, she knew that purity was a lost commodity. And thus it had great worth, but in a way which she had never imagined. From the shelter of her over-possessive upbringing, Jacqueline knew not of the deviance which plagued the “real” world.

Her means were simple. And her beauty flowed from her naivete. A clear conscience and a pure heart could defeat the most destructive of beasts. Astride her bicycle, she had set out to offer her goodness to ease the pains of the darkness. Jacqueline had no idea.

The lovely one had no inkling of what awaited her in her travels. She had never encountered ravenous wolves. She did not battle wicked witches. She was in for a rude awakening. But the world awaited Jacqueline. It was more than capable of encountering her kind. They would destroy her. Jacqueline could never distinguish between purity and fear. Either way, she reeked of it.


"She felt carefree and unencumbered. Delphine was lighter than Eyre!"

“She felt carefree and unencumbered. Delphine was lighter than Eyre!”


Delphine found herself lost in her writings. She had wit and a clearly expressive soul. In her mind, she was a Bronte sister separated at birth and quite a few decades. But her imaginings were very visual; a feast for the eyes and soul. Delphine’s diversion placated her sedentary heart.

Adventure and situations played in her mind; a muse that was more blessing than curse. But at worst, she was merely a good writer. Those who read her worded magnificence knew otherwise. She carried her verbiage like a cache of gold. It was her intent that gave her words their worth and value.

Delphine drew such great comfort from releasing her ramblings into the world. She soared in unforeseen stratospheres. She flew in the paths of many great authors before her. She became airborne through the spreading of her wings on her flights of fancy. She felt carefree and unencumbered. Delphine was lighter than Eyre!