Memories fade like ghosts in the night. Their sharp edges worn and frayed, their once vivid colors now muted tones of gray. I grope frantically to retrieve them, but they’re dusty smudges in empty books shelved within my mind. I stumble through the corridors of my imagination, searching through the labyrinth of ideas. They fall atop each other, tangled and twisted as they dance at the edge of my memory and whisper for me to breathe life into them and…
She hides behind pseudonyms, effortlessly sliding into each one. In editor mode, she draws strength from Scarlet Market, who slashes words without mercy, perfecting each new story. Until Zoe Konfety waltzes through, leaving a wake of vibrant glittering confetti to celebrate every minute victory. Curled in a chair, buried under a quilt and lost in her novel, she becomes Hannah Dewey, book enthusiast. In moments of chaos misplaced amongst a sea of people, she’s Jane Smith, the forgotten wallflower. On…
Old age has crept up on me, although by many standards I am not old. I am older than I once was, but generations ahead of me chuckle at the idea that I am old. Yet, the spring in my once lively step is gone. I am well acquainted with the banter as I ascend or descend stairs, and plan my outings around the weather, some of which makes my joints ache. I rise and fall with the sun, and…
1. The formica table which sat below the window that was far too high on the wall. Or maybe I was so much shorter, and it seemed abnormally high to me. The table was always full of projects, papers, coupons, and bowls. The deseeding of figs for her sister, the coupons to give away. There was nothing particularly special or beautiful about the white and black table, but I remember how we sat in the battered chairs and discussed many…