One More Day of Waiting
One More Day of Waiting belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Art Inspired by Dreams, Core [C.O.R.E], Live, Love, Dream: , Short stories - Spherical Scriptings, Up & Coming Writers and WMGShe felt small – a wish in a well, a dust mote in a sunbeam. She knew she flared, but her size made the flash go unseen. People passed her, took no notice, left her rippling in her well or swirling in her wafer of sun. Most days it was was enough to know she sparkled. It was enough to believe that someday another would cross her path see her shine. She believed that there was one for her, the twin to her soul, the yin to her yang. Her faith kept her in stride. Most days… but not every day.
She knew, all to well, that wishes in wells are prone to rust. Coins melt together in age until separate wishes are lost to the uncaring whole. Dust motes settle, collect and catch no sun; they become a film, a residue to be wiped away and forgotten.
She could feel herself rusting in the shade. Her skin was the same, her hair unchanged, but her spirit decayed unseen. Why did no one see her? Where was the one that would dance with her, ripple with her, fall with her? Did he exist? Perhaps he was lost at the age of five – in a tragic accident and the loss of a spark. She would never know but for the ever present ache in her heart, the phantom limb of her lost twin.
She’d often called herself a hopeless romantic. It used to be an endearing term, romantic in itself… but now? Now the hopelessness took precedent. There was nothing romantic about dinner for one, two pillows for one head, hands left unheld.
People passed her. A shadow in the street. No one met her eyes. Not one stride paused. They flowed around her as she stood still. She felt like she was the one moving – away from the future, away from life, away from dreams and wishes and sunlight. She fell through the mass of limbs and thoughts; one more hopeless romantic, one more dust mote to gather on the uncaring surface of the world.
She sighed. It was a small sound, lost even to her own ears.
She took a breath, sheltered the guttering candle of her faith, shook off the collecting rust. What was one more day of waiting?
Holly Ringland
oh the hope in this in palpable. your imagery is sublime brad; a wafer of sun, the guttering candle of her faith. so clever and defiantly romantic. hope for the hopeless… the inspiration and optimism at the end is the icing on top.
Brad MacDuff replied
Thanks Holly, you always take the time to read and comment and I appreciate it – I know how precious time can be. This was inspired in part by your graphic scratch challenge, but I didn’t feel it fit the theme well enough. Next time!
Astoreth
oh this is very beautiful writing to me…because it’s so real! some people are hopeless romantics and eternal optimists…right to the end. excellent writing again.
Brad MacDuff replied
Thanks Jane. I just noticed your Paulo Coehlo quote – he’s one of my favorites. His writing is something I think everyone should read and aspire to.
lianne
This one – this beautiful expression of hope, of longing, of romantic dreams – is definitely for the “read again, read often” file, Brad. It’s as if you’ve looked into my soul and given it the most exquisite expression. Your imagery is sheer perfection – you’ve captured that ache in such a moving way. Perfectly beautiful, Brad.
Brad MacDuff replied
There you go again, making me smile and blush. You always say too much and bring out the sheepish schoolboy in me. Thank you so much Lianne.
butchart
dust may settle but hope should never have to….... thanks for the eloquent reminder….......b
Brad MacDuff replied
As Philip J. Fry said, “You can’t give up hope just because it’s hopeless. You have to hope even harder, and cover your ears, and go blah blah blah blah blah!”
Ushna Sardar
Excellent read Brad!
Brad MacDuff replied
Thanks Ushna! And thanks so much for the feature!
Susan Trigg
Lovely piece, so sad…
Brad MacDuff replied
Thanks Seeker…
Naomi Duff
great as usaul
Jim Hall
Hope is the saviour of us all. In the end, we must walk that lonesome valley alone. Till then, hope springs eternal. good work! I liked it. JH
Cassey
Excellent writing. Congratulations on your features.
Matthew Dalton
She would never know but for the ever present ache in her heart, the phantom limb of her lost twin
I stopped when I read this sentence. Her minds body map had a section for a part that wasn’t there. What an aching and wonderful concept.