I live for the delicate moments those brief instances of bliss. Some call them the simple things, God’s sweet freedoms, the touch of a snowflake on a chapped cheek, perhaps, a butterfly’s wing transparent against the sun. A perfect memory lost to time, we count them differently to life’s tedium. Delicacy can last until you blink, replace your book on its dusty shelf, or until your car enters the tunnel that blanks out a view. These are the things I speak of, and we all have many. For me, this moment was you, so delicate a creature as to break before I could hold your hand. I regret you being so delicate, or my being so clumsy.
She peered through a frill of willow tendrils dark eyes glaring. Tied to the river as she'd been the sea, the girl's tail flashed a silver dagger.
I'm ashamed to say I ran when all she wanted was a friend. I dream about her still when the spring tides come.
Christmas blizzards passed as accumulated flurries.
I lost a grandparent today and just needed to write something.
Time is tempered by the lifespans of man. So many notches on the tree of life are we, and little else. Yet, when the next generation, and the ones after them, and them, seek out the truths of the past in word and memory, they’ll find the truth in those carvings in the bark. We all leave them. His were just cut deeper than most.
I took to remembering when otherwise I might have crumbled. Remembering offered the sanctuary of past experiences, times I’d fought for and won. I liked remembering it made me feel warm and comfy inside, but I couldn’t remember why. I think that’s why she left me, but don’t honestly remember.
100 Word Stories: In Memory
I am not a man renowned for my memory. In fact, one might say I’m lambasted for it. Where you might recall, I forget. Where you smile and nod, I shake and grimace. The average mnemonic encourages the past and this is where we differ most, as I wish to forget it. In truth, we are unalike in almost every way. You would dredge up a long lost fragment of a disproportionately magical cobweb, whilst I would create new gossamer strands. You, my dear, would be at the centre of those strands. Have you been there before? I don’t care.
Lost lights shine the brightest, dazzling.
I remember green summers. Yes, remember.