Homeless children playing football with cans.”
50 Word Stories – The Clams
Everyone had an opinion without knowing what they gave an opinion on. A cacophony of the uneducated, those with the loudest voices fought to be heard above others of their kind, the quieter majority engulfed. I thought them clam-like, mouths opening and closing under the sea, though clams seemed smarter.
The world is blue.
Although life can be defined by the colours in which we parade, the earth itself lies resplendent under an emerald green jacket. For most people, a copse of trees or lush meadow define the idyllic. But not all.
For some, those identifiable dreamers, blue is the colour they aspire to be it ultramarine sea or cerulean sky.
Blue will fold around us when the green dies away.
Blue will be there when needed until our dying day.
A rippling reassurance when troubled. A turbulent chastisement when persuasion fails. Our droplet of universe.
The world is blue.
The world rocks, I rock with it. A disproportionate wind shivers these bones and rattles these teeth, though the world beyond my seclusion appears calm. Life in a hammock I call it, suspended between birth and death, a precarious situation. Yet despite my reservations, I’ve no desire to climb off.
Something about a winter sunrise stirred my soul, coated it in liquid gold, a protective cocoon that only angels enjoyed. Everyone got the summer dawns but not the winter. Timing was everything. Solitude essential. One had to just get up and relish them. And I have. And I will again.
Autumn has swept in without my knowing. An early gloom has stolen my evening reading and ushered in the need for unnatural, electric light; it buzzes like a swarm of flies. Northern kisses settle on chapped lips, the promise of snowflake tomorrows. There’s a change. Are you ready? I am.
Daily: children playing football with bricks.