For months she’d felt the weight of life upon her body, bearing down to bow a head and slope bare shoulders once held straight and proud. Her heavy mind felt like a ball of granite, knowing only one way to exist and be, allowing nothing but the very worst of blows to chip its grainy surface, sparkled here and there with the occasional light of laughter. Blending with the rain to darken, staining just a while and drying up again.
Last night she’d held the weight of life close to her body. The child of only three months old was an extension of another life she’d lost that week. Quiet, sleeping baby, happy to be held; she held him close. She rocked and crooned to him, though he was deep in dreams of milk and primary colors. He felt the cradling arms beneath him and felt secure. She felt the weight within her arms and came to life. Her head of granite slowly melted by the heat of nature, beaten by the forces that can change a solid stone to pulsing heart again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
This is wonderful writing. This is world class writing. Surely you are ready to use these ample talents to write a major story. Do you have a story you want to tell?
Good question. But I’m sure you have many stories to tell. The better question may be, “Hey, why don’t you tell us a major story?”
Thank you, you both are too kind and generous with your words. I’m trying, but I just don’t think I’m ready yet to flow beyond a paragraph or two of unrelated moments. What I am learning and how I am writing now is just another level I have maybe reached. Now I must somehow learn to use this style as well, but infiltrating a story–not commanding it. This language throughout a narrative would be tedious, I am sure.