There were no more surprises that day until the sky began to darken. She looked to the west. “Oh!” she gasped, as a face formed before her eyes. “Hello!” she called. “I guess the Universe is always saying hello,” she said as the clouds rearranged themselves and the light faded from the sky. “You just
During her walk that afternoon, she came upon her next surprise. A face. Staring up at her from the asphalt. A mask of varied color, with one eye coyly closed, the other staring boldly at her, and green lips curved in a cupid’s bow smile. “Hello,” she said to the leaf, before the wind carried
That morning there had been a lady bug waiting to greet her on the bathroom mirror. It seemed an auspicious event. “Hello,” she whispered to her polka-dotted guest. And though it was not a response she could hear, she felt sure the ladybug returned her greeting in kind. “I wonder what other surprises might be
“Looks like rain,” Emma’s Grandma Frances said, looking up. Emma squinted up at the vast blue sky, then at her grandmother. “Where?” she asked. “On its way.” Grandma Frances nodded. “Let’s you and I find a place to wait it out.” “A place to hide?” Emma asked, excited by the idea of a new game.
Silence… …sweet, blessed void… Refuge. Solace. And… …the only space… in which she can truly hear.
“…nine, ten! Ready or not, here I come!” Janey laughed, and scanned the grove of trees for her friend. Emma covered her mouth to keep from laughing and crouched low to the ground behind the tree. She’d picked the tree because it wasn’t very cute—kind of like a slug with arms. She thought it might
Someone left a book in her mailbox today—”Woe is I, The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English.” There was no note, only a faded orange post it with her name written in all caps, in unfamiliar handwriting. She knows she’s not the best at grammar. Lie? Lay? Which is it? She can never
He is twice her size. She straddles the park bench, her back to his chest, face towards the sun. Encircled by his arms. His winter-pale legs—golden hair shimmering—encase hers. His warm lips graze the back of her neck. She peers over her shoulder as a woman walks by, one of many on this sunny spring
The tide rose without her noticing. She is drowning. In an ocean of voices. Their clashing rhythms crashes over her. Deep. High. Fast. Slow. She imagines a bubble, like a deep-sea diver’s helmet, set squarely upon her broad shoulders. Meant to keep the voices out. To keep her thoughts her own. Her own. The voices
If I were going to make a movie in the style of Hitchcock, she thought, I would include this silhouetted tree, with this brooding sky behind it.