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Weekly Contest #88
I am not my mother's daughter. Grandmother told me stories of her smile. How it could draw the stars from their hiding places. How it gave branches voice and the leaves color. I never told Grandmother I remembered it. I was too afraid the stories would stop. The stories were secret and my father did not like to hear them. “He does not like the reminder,” my grandmother would breathe between her loose strands of dancing grey. I knew she didn’t understand though, that he liked nothing more than remembering that smile. What he did not li...
Weekly Contest #43
I was raised by a madman, and I am no better for it. He taught me to speak in Whispers, his own spoken so softly I had to watch the careful movement of his lips. “You don’t speak in Whispers to be heard,” he’d say, as his eyes traced the dust mites that lived in fractured shafts of lamplight. “Whispers open your ears.” No wonder I grew up a quiet child. Nothing came as easily to me as the Whispers. Not the characters that I was taught which came to me slowly, each new combination laboured over, my tongue twisting and rolling o...
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