“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – Emily Dickinson
Vapors emanate – Hot, white, smokey clouds of hope Warming up my lips.
“Everyday I play “you and I” together, our love, our life, our story, the whole of us. I patch you up with memories. You appear to me, ever so perfect, distant and ethereal. Evanescent. I have tried to concentrate, meditate, but I cannot hold on to the sweet apparition of your face,
When he arrived at her house, he saw him hug her on her porch. He felt a hot burning sensation rise from his core, take a hold of him and fire up his cheeks, overpowering his mind, and causing his limbs to tremble and twitch, making him feel weak.
He remembered how he felt the day he first laid eyes on her. He fell for her on the spot. Her shiny black curls cascading on her shoulders, she was wearing an empire white dress with large strokes of forest green paint printed on it. They formed abstract patterns reminiscent of spring and flowers.
“All he wanted to do was help her, protect her. All he ended up doing was to tear her heart apart. He looked back at this whole mess, trying to pinpoint when it all went out of hand. Then it all came rushing back to him. Not the dark times, but the great ones.”
“A black tide of fear overwhelmed me. My spirit flew right out of my body, straight into Underguard 1. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d crashed into his dreamscape.
“Following Vikram with downcast eyes, Alif found himself in the entranceway of an apartment on the tenth floor – how, he was not entirely sure; Vikram had entered without appearing to produce a key.” Alif the Unseen, by G. Willow Wilson, p.120
“Early birds were chirping. I stirred up. My nose and lips felt ice-cold. Dew had formed on my skin. The rest of my body was still comfortably warm, nestled in my covers.
“I started running ahead, daring him to follow me. I threw the towel down on my way, buying myself milliseconds on him – I knew he would not resist picking it up. He caught up, and grabbed me. Once. I barely escaped.
“I looked up at his chiseled face. He ran his hand on my wet hair and extended a kiss. As his lips brushed against mine, my eyes closed. Instantly. I was transported. He had the taste of sand and sunburnt skin.
Stories are induced by the words of a writer, But they spring to life in the mind of the readers. ©Hailie Andersen “The verse is mine; but friend, when you declaim it, It seems like yours, so grievously you maim it.” An epigram of Martial