If I could reach her, I would. But there’s a distance between us that I can’t describe. She’s not far from me, but she’s close. Yet, we still can’t touch. The person I write of is a relic who’s always been there but I never noticed; really it should have been as clear to me as raindrops that fall or a rainbow that suddenly appears after a terrifying thunderstorm or sometimes even after gentle droplets. Or perhaps a better way to describe her is this: She’s always been a slumbering being long dead that was buried a thousand years ago. Only when a new building is built like in Rome and London and hard hat-wearing construction men and women delve below the surface through dirt and mud do they find the stone walls that reveal there was an ancient city thousands of years ago. Piece by piece, an archaeologist will dig and dust the surface of the stones mapping out a wall, building, or city and other hidden treasures such as pottery, plates, and cutlery that divulge who once lived there. Eventually, the archaeologist might be able to tell you who the people were that lived there, when they lived, and what life might have been like. She is there, always has been, and only with a steady hand, a thoughtful mind, and a strong heart will I find her again.
Published by Tortuous Tales
I'm a Canadian writer of random thoughts, short stories, and a couple of manuscripts. I've been published in several literary journals over the last few years, and I continue to create both short stories and full-length manuscripts. Tortuous Tales is my space to create short stories that might include: fantasy, science fiction, memoir, or romance. Here you might find anything including book reviews, or musings on the challenges of writing. Welcome to Tortuous Tales. This is the blog of stories. Any stories. View all posts by Tortuous Tales