The Lake Decision - 2
The Lake Decision - 1
...About the word 'Black'
Bernice was my mother's name. It's still difficult for me to say that out loud. She's been gone for years, but I have so many happy memories.. Thanksgiving and Christmas were always busy, happy times for our family - music, laughter, food, company, drinks and desserts aplenty. As the only and firstborn girl, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen learning from my mom. The purpose wasn't only cooking, though. In the warm, scented confines between the countertop, the stove and the fridge, we'd chat about almost everything. She'd listen to my adolescent tales of woe or triumph and I'd hear snippets of her life story before and after children. My three younger brothers learned the basic culinary skills when they got older, but their main objective was to taste whatever savoury or sweet item we were preparing.
Chris Vogler MasterClass, Toronto, Ontario, 2017
Writershelpingwriters.net tip
Chris Vogler Master Class, Toronto, Ontario, 2017
Chris Vogler Masterclass, Toronto, Ontario, 2017
Cool crescent of proportional perfection, the nautilus shell gleams in a slash of sunlight. A lustrous comma contradiction of itself, its form pale punctuation. I palm the sensuous pearly curve, wondering from which languid reef it came. I sense the sacred geometry, the swirl of luminosity deep within, the hypnotic tumble into slippery darkening shadow. There is a flawless symmetry in these nacred walls, these ordered wavelets of calcified ooze from long forgotten mantle tissues. I cup the slim shell to my ear - the sea-sound is a muted hush. No thing resides within its burnished cavernosities. I stroke the stiff ridges of past lives, the vacant tidal chambers of translucent armour, protecting naught.
You can shape your true story like fiction and incorporate the emotion that brings it to life.
Be authentic. Listen to your inner writer's voice!
Night The vast silent weight of limitless indigo sky weighs on my ears like relentless waves on a broken furrowed field. The grass, seared to sisal by the blasts of July, crackles under my feet. I am but dust in the cosmos under a bulbous pearl of moon.
Book 1 Cover Stories
Kenora stories
