Old Bones

Her bones creak as she turns the steering wheel. She dwells on her daughter-in-laws wine soaked voice saying, “You really shouldn’t drive anymore, Mom. You’re eye sight is dreadful. You could seriously hurt someone!” The advice wasn’t bad, she thought to herself. The years had brought many handicaps to Mary Magdalene, but she was convinced that she could find her way to the beach even if she was totally blind; darkness could not stunt the memory of the old winding roads leading to the beach.

Her usual visits brought back many memories of times spent in the water and on the sand. The sun often left a lasting impression of her visits; her shoulders went from a pale white that lay covered in the winter, to an exposed bronze gold. She would often go home with red cheeks, causing her mother to scold her for not applying another layer of sun sunscreen. But Mary Magdalene bore the changes gladly, for in them held the memory of sunny days and bright smiles. For the whole summer, she held the imprints of her swimming suit. When she would glide into the shower and strip the tattered swimming suit off her body the trace of it never left and she didn’t care.

Today the sky is grey and cold; the color of mourning. She is on a mission--a mission of fleeting breath, final goodbyes, and last words.  She pulls into the empty parking lot slowly, and finds a parking spot. The white lines are blurred through her ancient eyes, so she is careful not to pull the car in too far. She sits in the driver’s seat, for a moment, gazing at the stone wall that covers the view of the sand. The waves are frantically racing towards the shore. She knows it will be cold; too cold for old bones. Yet, she reaches her hand to the car handle; gentle pulls it and sets her bare feet on the pavement.  “Baby Steps”, she chants, enticing her aching feet to keep moving. 

Thank you for reading. I post a new narrative every Friday. 

Blessings! 

Careening

I sat in the passenger seat with my legs hugged into my chest. Smoke and sweat were thick in the car, encasing me in a bubble I couldn’t escape. I remember being afraid, and looking at him; the blonde hair, blue eyed teenager that had too much testosterone coursing through his veins. He was short and not at all like a man, just a boy making boy mistakes and me at the mercy of his hormones; the end of his nerves. I felt defenseless as the car roared down the road.

Much like the feeling of a life that is careening out of control and there is no way to stop it. *crashing *crashing *crashing.

 I remember when the fires happened. The mountain was completely entrenched in a lethal red, inflaming anything and everything in its path. And me a helpless person, running, running, running-- Running from terror. Running from the reality that my life was being engulfed by smoke, and I was being driven out. The fire and the boy have something in common, they both sent me careening into directions I didn’t want to go. I became a dog licking my wounds under their powers.

Preface

No one reads the preface of a book. The usual thing to do is to flip past the first pages and graze over the first statements, which usually read "Chapter one". As much as i would like to skip this superfluous task, my literary moral convictions tell me to go ahead and write it.

So if you've stumbled upon this blog I would like to inform you of what it is, exactly. But first I will inform you on what it is not. It does not fall under any of the following blog categories: Cooking, exercise, traveling, fashion, or liberal news column. Nor will I discuss female related health issues. This blog is literary. It is for the average Tom, Dick, and Harry, that likes a good narrative as much as the next person.

But most of all this blog will embrace the true art of the English tongue.

I must warn you however, my grammar is appalling. Don't read this blog to get advice on the comma splice or figure out how to finally use the semi-colon correctly.

I will be posting a new narrative every Friday.

Yours sincerely and affectionately,
Blue Stockings