Tribes: Note 8

20171003_21b5fdf556_oShe remembered the feeling, like drinking cold water too fast. Unsure if it’ll come back up, but regretting the indulgence that led to this moment. Gut full of guilt. Why did she always overreact when it came to Liam? Why wasn’t she allowed to be happy? These are the questions ghosts will ask you when you’re down, when you’ve slept the night in your closet then schlepped to work still hungover, eyes weighty and puffed. The haunted body hurts, rumbling in the joints, ice pick in the stomach. Sylvia crossed the bridge and thought of Noah, nice Noah who had thought to invite her anywhere.

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Waiting by the Station

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Because a gulf of time surrounds me, I sit at a coffee house across from the trains to await departure. Each engine roars into the station with a wash of passengers, comings and goings. Fresh surf. The wave rumbles. Then they’re gone. And I wait, and wait, my nose in latte foam. Jealous for their oceans, impatient for my own.

 

The header image is adapted from a photo by Flickr user RedBull Trinker.

The Story Coat

Logs crackle as Hasha watches the needle in her mother’s hand pierce and reemerge from the embroidered hem of her father’s coat. Threads weave their family’s history into the garment’s borders: the victory with the defeat, the joy with the loss.

“Here is the day your grandparents married,” says Mother, pointing to two silver doves. “And here is the night fire claimed their barn.”

“What happens when the border’s complete?” Hasha asks, wondering if her life will count towards the colorful threads in her family’s coats.

“Then we’ll begin again,” Mother smiles, and clips the threads between her teeth.

 

Trying something new this week with Six Sentence Stories. You can check out others’ takes on this week’s cue “BORDER,” here.

 

The Last Mermaids

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We’d come to see the last of the Mermaids, called it a conservation trip but really we were just there to gawk. And point. Stand in the background of a CNN reporter’s camera and wave to our friends back home who had thought we were cruel to come so far just for a sideshow. Continue reading

Constellations

 

My fingers move like needle points, spun between the poles of

Clavicle and calves. Invisible lines of magnetism,

Your freckles are my guides. By nights these constellations, traced,

Become my map and sky: Polaris, and the star charts — a universe laid bare.

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The Isle of Brad

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Brad was an explorer born six centuries too late. He’d known this from childhood, staging naval battles in the bathtub. Trading pinecones and beads with his action figures. But at forty-six there were no new worlds to conquer, save the mysterious space where paper jammed in the office copier. So Brad set out in his dingy boat, looking for a land to call his own. Continue reading

The Climb

photo-20170717154624399That earthy, peaty smell like so many earthworms’ private fantasies richened the air that morning. The world was keeping secrets, and Jørgen was set on discovery. He sharpened his tools, mended his bag, and looked up the hill. The sun was high by now. He groaned.

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