A woman waltzes around a sunset lake, tired and caught in a net of daydreams. On a bench, a lone stranger adjusts his jacket. He resumes drawing memorized trees; willows, maples, elms. The woman passes him. She glances at his illustrations and the somber beauty they hold. There’s a kindling of a light inside her, reminding her of days long buried. The stranger looks up, and for an instant, a fraction of infinite possibilities align, two shards of being positioned on parallel lines. Another version of the woman moves on, but this one stays.
About the Creator
Bridget Couture
An aspiring author and poet with an unquenchable love for books. Can often be found typing intensely or substituting reading for sleep.
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More stories from Bridget Couture and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Remember Us As Medea
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. A glimpse, which only a sliver of a shard, an insignificant, hopeless speck of humanity had. Was she fortunate? Was she lucky that her position granted her such proximity? She could never decide. Every snippet of that glorious sky seemed to clash with the Hell into which she was born. Always two opposite forces, destined to split her soul in two.
By Bridget Couture3 years ago in Fiction
After the Storm
After the storm of winter snow there sat a small bear by the name Ted, of course. He loves the snow and likes to roll around in it making all sorts of trails and whatever he has a mind to do. He wondered where all the people are, but in a way, he is hoping that they are all snug in the homes maybe drinking hot chocolate-one of his favorite drinks with mini-marshmallows and eating something homemade for he likes this winter wonderland all to himself to romp and play and maybe even catch some fish down by the river.
By Mark Graham4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
The eye of the poet, seeing something that must needs be captured, painted, preserved.