Under Lavender Skies

All the photos, except the sun set, we're taken at Crystal Bridges Museum of Art.  Enjoy! <3 "The Sky of Life" by Abby McLean  The world rattles on On rusty hinges,  Cracked doors, And through clogged tunnels And we’re expected to move Through them Either that or  The world moves on On a conveyor belt of sorts  Always moving  Relentless And we’re expected to move With it It’s the first of September, I lay back on a bench Sweltering in the heat And watching the clouds  Change shape  Above me Then I have the idea That maybe the picture of life  Doesn’t have to be continuously moving forward Maybe a better image would be  the clouds Or the sky The clouds and rain and lightning move around it Like people and things, in our own lives But the sky is rarely alone And neither are we  Even though it is the first Of the month And I am melting  Under the sky I watch the clouds Move on And try to be impartial as they go And ...

If you haven't read the short story I posted last week you'll want to do that before you read this.  You can find the story here .   The story "Brick Days," was inspired by a couple of things and ended up changing from the original intent.  The middle of the story really just happened, I didn't plan it and when I sat down to write, that's what came out.  I like how it turned out though, about an unexpected friend that was there for a moment and then gone.  Unexpected and unasked for kindness is what I was going for.   Let's start at the beginning. . .  There really was a fly in my water cup one morning.  I noticed it but didn't do anything, didn't throw it out or move it, just like the main character in the story.  That evening I noticed that someone had put my cup next to the sink and I knew it had been mine because the fly was still there.  So if you were wondering how I came up with the beginning of the story, there you have...

Hey everyone!  It has been such a long time since I last posted a short story and I am very excited to share this with you!     Brick Days By Me  There is a fly in my water.  It isn’t dead, but fluttering around, pushing its legs and body like it still has a hope to make it out.  Flinging my head back, I finish the last swallow of my coffee and set it in the sink on my way out, not bothering to clean the cup or throw the fly outside or down the sink.   Resting before the front door of my smaller-than-should-be-allowed apartment is my bike.  It’s silver and the best and ugliest bike I have ever had.  It’s not even that ugly, the absence of prettiness doesn’t necessarily leave ugly as the only option. I lug it downstairs and think at least it’s only one flight.   I have a friend who lives on the third floor, he rides a bike around town too.   I push off outside my building and wait until the brick ground smooths out to ...