my entries for the Construct Cup |
she lingers on antique pages between archaic sentences and simple words that illuminate the patterns of her days. her troubles. her joys. the day she lost her gloves in the garden because she wanted to feel the soil pass between her fingers and the sun in her hair. her mother scolded the sun baked freckles that appeared and treated her skin with a mash of asparagus and lemon juice that tinted her cheeks pale green. she was in the last echoes of childhood, her hair still caught in a braid straight down her back, in that cusp before she would become a woman, ready to tie it up. she refused to let the boy, the one who sat behind her in Sunday school, know how often his name graced her pen, but she was certain she was meant for him when he became a man. day by day her life unfolds, her dreams winging through the years until April twenty-third, eighteen-thirty-eight when she disappears, her voice muzzled, and blank lines cover the unfinished journal with questions answered only by an angel in the churchyard and a story of a storm and a swollen stream told to her sister’s great-great grandchildren. line count: 34 Prompt for April 16, 2016 ▼ |