Though before you get bored by my poor writing, Kellie is already a published writer with “Magic in the Backyard”. Now Kellie has “Jagged Little Pieces” coming out in March 2013. Both are collections of prose and poetry, so feel free to check out the links.
Caught unsheltered, the story goes, friends for life they say (Free Write Friday).
Morning breaks here with a storm, as her bare feet brush across a polished floor, walks a girl of beauty, but for the scar upon her chin. Through, past the heavy open door, gentle sounding foot steps, out to her wide verandah world, peering past the wisp of her golden hair, across into the open world to see the melting snow beneath each driven raindrop. Soon pausing at the steps beneath a rough and fastened lean-to, her beauty rests upon the still dry stairs. The world beyond her shelter, a mix of torrent and driven chaos, as last night’s world now melts away, her eyes surveys one soul now caught unsheltered. A youth just like herself, still unsure just how to fly, their head bowed, out there perched upon the fence’s rail. Where the raindrops burst, breaking across their soft feathers, into a hundred more, to dance above their open refuge, the young bird sits there, no brave resolve, just the will to wait it out, the courage to know they must. As the girl, with the scar upon her chin, reaches up, grasping the old raincoat hanging on the post, her feet, they find the stairs, through the water and melting snow. Till darting through the open space, the old coat above her head, rain still finds a way, to make it to her olive skin. For soon the youth, they finally meet, out there by the rail, as the girl with the scar upon her chin, raises up the coat, the young bird, feels relieved. Looking up, the feathers shake, both content here sheltered from the storm, where their worlds now meet, the girl, she strikes a smile. The two youth they rest, beneath a doorway to open space, their beauty, with all its scars, as they keep company for a while. The story goes, friends for life they say.
The street I grew up on (Free Write Friday), red marble gravel, the kind you can run along and then go for a rolling slide, as if you were rolling across a million marbles or ball bearings. It would seem you might go forever, but it was probably only a few feet. One time, floodwaters seem to come with in a hundred metre/yards of our street, but those were young days, only old photos now, the small town on its little hill. Bushfire also had its chance, rushing down fast out from the north, the grass stubble turning black behind it, a little closer it did call. Now strange came the days when they took their turns in one same week, the different sides of US, or Australian, their tanks came rolling down the street. But what I remember most, is I must of rode or walked the street, ten thousand times or more, even though one time, the street it disappeared beneath. Ice as far as the eye could see, grapefruit looking hailstones, no grass, no road, no gravel. Just like a frozen wasteland, with trees stripped near bare, and damaged rooves just everywhere. But it was the fun and all the good times on one side or the other, all the photos and all the laughter, the sister and the brothers. So here I say, I’d take the street that I grew up on, and swap it with no other.
Just a brief small window above, for morning has broken, the day is young, and the world outside awaits.