By Diane Fitzsimmons
One year after my death, and still I wait atop this blue ridge each hour before dawn. Shrouded in mist beneath these silver maples, a whippoorwill steals my silence. Damn him. Leaving no trace, I tread into the cloud-covered valley where my fears condense, and then release me. Cresting the next ridge, I stand on the bald and hear the Grist Mill Spring churning and the bells of Story’s Creek Church. Is that you in the pitch of the pipe organ? Here on Andrew’s Bald, I wait, with no breath to hold, for a sun that will not rise.
OMG!! how evocative.
Made me cry and I don’t even know why.
Quickly pulled tears from me, too. Dad.
Having written this tour de force, perhaps the author could now write a companion piece, allowing in a sliver of light.
Interesting request! I will try it. Thank you!
Waiting…for what’s next can be painful, almost nightmarish.
I have a second theory on this poem. The author is waitng in purgatory for the next life, drawing comparisons to past life.
I like your take! Thank you for commenting!
This by far is the most beautifully sad story I’ve read. Loved it!
Wow! Thank you so much. That means a lot to me. This piece may evolve into a longer piece of fiction. It is kind of mystical when your writing clicks and morphs into something unexpected. That is what this story did for me. Keeping it to exactly 101 words helped me be more creative, which surprised me, because I thought it would be limiting!
I have enjoyed reading your stories, too!
I look forward to reading the longer version.
I really like your writing style! -Jamal