Another fine crop of stories this week and so many ways of not writing about a drowning at sea. Very well done!
First in was a piece of childhood writing from Patricia, reproduced here because there isn’t a blog post link.
The forest black, cold, frightening looms before me. My heart pounding, shaking fear is all I can feel. Frightful noises all around me, crackling branches thump as they hit the ground.
I want to step forward to see what I can see. I can not move, every fiber is frozen. I want to cry out help me please help me, my voice will not respond. I want to hang on to a branch to steady my shaking legs but my hand will not reach up. My throat dry the words stuck.
Suddenly I hear a voice calling my name in the distance. Again I hear the voice this time stronger still. It gives me courage. I will go to it, what is it saying? It is my savior, it is my helping hand. I find my strength, my feet start to move, my feet feel the ground beneath them now. The voice is clear now. The fear is gone. I am not lost.
It is my mom’s voice, she is calling me in from the garden, it’s time for lunch.
My frilly Freudian friend
and after the ghostly white space, my own story