Born to Run

Hi all,

I'm writing the following short story for Thursday Tales. The image above is inspired by Londonladiie.

The thrill of spring tantalized Drew’s nostrils. He ran his fingers through the fresh, cut grass. He had that jittery, butterfly feeling down in his belly, which made him laugh. It was the first game of the season.

He raised his starch, white uniform over his head. He took pride in the team logo and the large C for captain pressed against his heart.

He remembered when his head hung low and tears stung his eyes. The taste of blood and mud still lingered in his mouth. He was inconsolable after the match.

Drew had shut everyone out. He couldn’t look his girlfriend in the eyes. He had distanced himself from his family. Life became one dark, cruel hole that consumed him.

One evening, an old friend stopped by for a visit. He too was shaken, distraught, and filled with grief.

“My boy…my boy’s been in an accident,” he sobbed. “The doctors say he may never walk again.”

“That’s awful,” Drew sighed. The news weighed down on him heavily.

“They’re telling me you’re going to quit soccer,” his friend spoke solemnly. “Is it true?”

“God knows I’ve been in pain. I just keep running over that play over and over again. Look at me Joe,” Drew shouted. He scratched his grizzly beard and his uncombed hair. “I barely move from this chair. I don’t take phone calls. I’m a mess.”

“Yea, I can see that,” Joe nodded. “Why did you let me come over?”

“I knew you’d just sit there and listen,” Drew answered. “I don’t need any lectures or pep talk.”

“I can’t talk you out of quitting. But I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

“Anything Joe. What is it?” Drew felt himself sobering up and taking in life again.

“Play for my boy, Drew. With the accident, the doctors don’t think…” and his voice trailed off. Drew filled in the silence.

“I’ll play for him,” he resolved. “I’ll be his legs on the field.”

Joe’s son gave Drew a renewed sense of purpose. He carried the boy in his heart with every drill and practice. He felt the ice in his heart melt as winter turned to spring.

On game day, Drew trotted onto the field and gazed up at the row of spectators. He caught Joe’s eye and spotted his son beside him. Drew welled up with pride as he gathered in a huddle with his teammates. The breeze grazed his chin. As he sprinted, he felt his leg muscles pump blood. He wasn’t running alone. The world felt right again.

Carnival of Lights

Hi all,

The following story is written for Thursday Tales. The inspiring image comes from NineteenCID.

He called my name through the whir of carnival lights. The air smelled of cotton candy and popcorn. He wrapped his arms around me like a sweater. The brisk, autumn air kissed my cheeks.

“Let’s take a ride on those swings,” he smiled. He put his fingers through mine and lifted my hand into the air. When he touched me, I could feel butterflies rise in my stomach. I laughed like a school girl.

We stood in line stealing kisses when I noticed a proposal strung up in neon lights: Will you marry me?

“Who’s the lucky girl,” I laughed, glancing into his dancing eyes.

“I’m looking at her,” he smiled slyly. I fell back in surprise and my mouth flew open. This tipsy, giddy feeling swept over me. His body was the only thing keeping me up.

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered. My quivering lips met his with the answer.

“Just say yes,” he whispered. He knelt carrying a velvet box. My eyes welled up in surprising joy as I hung my arms around his neck.

I felt young, barely five, when I rode with a giddy grin in the carnival of lights.

One Second Of Fortune

Hi all,

I am writing the following short story for Thursday Tales. The inspiring image is Aame at A Buzzing Mind... and a Passionate Heart.

Lee glanced down at the black under his fingernails. He could feel dirt and sweat collecting against his brow. His clothes reeked of hot, August suns in city garbage dumps. He couldn't remember the last time he bathed. He fantasized about taking a dive into that cold, glass of water on the table.

He was situated in a diner with black and white checkered floors and pretty, pastel paintings along the walls. The patrons turned up their noses and looked away. He disgusted them. He understood and kept his head down.

His mouth watered as he perused the menu. He watched an invisible plate grow with a mountain of golden pancakes, a river of strawberry and butter floating down his belly. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten. The pockets in his jeans were worn away and full of holes. He didn’t have any money.

A young girl with baby doll eyes and pink, pouty lips walked to his table. She had a crisp, white apron around her waist. He hadn’t loved a woman in a long time.

“May I take your order, sir?” There was an anxious quiver in her voice.

“What do you recommend miss,” Lee answered coolly. His dirty smile was not reassuring.

“People like the American style burger. We also have a special on all-you-can-eat flapjacks.”

“That sounds good. I’ll take the flap jacks.” Lee closed the menu and handed it over to the waitress. She reluctantly took the menu and bowed out silently.

Lee had his fill of flapjacks, devouring a mountaintop of buttery pancakes. Nearby, patrons ogled at the man with no stomach.

Then, the waitress turned her heels on him with a sheepish smile. She laid her tiny fingers on the table with a note. He had hoped it would be her number. Instead, it was a bill he couldn’t pay for.

He glanced at the counter top ahead of him where a man, dressed in a business suit, vacated his seat. Several bills were laid out next to the tip jar. The waitress was out of view and the patrons were too engrossed in conversation to notice him.

Calculating his moves, Lee stood and approached the counter top. He came within inches of the money when a man cleared his throat behind him.

The man in the suit had returned. His eyes were a brilliant blue; his blonde hair was slicked back. He fidgeted with his cuff links and glanced at the watch on his right wrist. He acknowledged Lee with a slight smile.

“You don’t want to take that,” he advised. “There’s a limit to that money. Fast money dries up pretty fast.” He leaned against the table and blocked Lee’s path. Lee feared the man might arrest him. After a moment of silence, the man laughed hard.

“Hey, don’t worry! I won’t give you away. I was in your shoes not too long ago.”

“What did you do,” Lee whispered. He was embarrassed to be seen this way in front of a business man.

“I got myself a job and cleaned up,” he smiled. “Money is easy to find when you aren’t looking for it. Take the money, man. You need it.”

Lee didn’t hesitate and grabbed the money on the counter. When Lee turned to thank the man, he was gone.

Lee smiled at his good fortune, paid the bill, and gave a generous tip to the girl with baby doll eyes.

In Daddy's Arms

Thursday Tales features an inspiring and beautiful image for Father’s Day. The artist is Jim from DevianArt.

In daddy’s arms, little Robert drops his brown eyes into his chest. Daddy’s heart patters steady and strong like a beating drum. As daddy’s lips touches the crown of his little head, he hums a song. He sings of a world of little boys on grand adventures out to sea. He sings Robert across the ocean, past the moon, and uncharted seas. He sings of fairy tales and friendly creatures, unusual and rare. He sings of sky in all shimmering hues, and Robert catches a glimpse of heaven. In daddy’s arms, little Robert fits snugly like a glove. In daddy’s arms, Robert feels unmeasured love.

Lone Scarecrow

Hi all,

Tonight, I am inspired to write a short story from Thursday Tales. The artist is Sara Vandermeulen at DeviantArt.

I've borrowed the stoic face of the scarecrow. I've laid his midnight top hat upon my head. I've worn his purple robes and the cobwebs tangled on the sleeves. I've taken his place in spring meadows as the wind plays into evening. Gazing out, I am the groom of the crow who greets me.

I've found a lover in the sun. A lover who has never lacked in intensity and fondness. The sun rays pour out like kisses upon me. And the moon is my confidant in those long, weary nights. When the universe refuses to birth a star, give me cups of moonlight.

Tomorrow and ages hence, I will be like forgotten straw and stick. The fields grow desolate of passersby. Only curious children will notice my presence and greet me.

Swinging

Hi all,

I'm posting for Thursday Tales. This week's photo is inspired by Ruxi at DeviantArt.

Tall, beautiful trees coiled in the distance. The fog parted her white veil and scattered creatures into the wind. Beyond, the light possessed a magical splendor. It felt ripe and full against her skin. She concentrated on swinging. Her long tendrils swung back and forth against lace. Her legs pumped higher in a defiant kick against gravity. She closed her eyes and drifted off into the cool shade of her dreams.

Piano Lessons

Hi all,

I am writing the following story for Thursday Tales. The accompanying photo is by Roxana Enache at DeviantArt.

Mr. Santiago’s lesson yawned with the lazy, August afternoon. Reanna stumbled over the keys as his fingers fluttered beside hers naturally. The ceiling fan shrieked out above them, blowing hot air on their faces.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t been practicing,” Mr. Santiago spoke sternly. He wiped the sweat off his brow as his eyes grew artic and distant. Reanna glanced hard at the floor. Her reflection rippled in the glossy, fluorescent wax.

“May I ask why you are here?” His eyes had softened in the sun, but she didn’t raise her head.

“My mother,” she answered in one incoherent mumble. His gaze was oppressive and exhausting.

“Yes, she was a fine pianist,” he spoke fondly. His eyes danced across the black and white keys reminiscing.

“We were classmates way back when. I marveled at the spark in her eyes whenever she played. She possessed such fierce emotional connection with every note. But you haven‘t inherited it.”

Mr. Santiago stopped playing. His displeasure swept across his face from one end to the other.

“Put your heart into the lesson. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.” His words landed across her face with a cold snap. It raised her from the inescapably hot room. She didn’t raise her head and look at him. The spot on the floor started spinning.

She banged her head against the hot, piano keys. The vibrations purred out long and slow as Mr. Santiago’s footsteps sauntered away. The most beautiful music was peace.

Snake Charmer

Hi all,

I am writing this for Thursday Tales. The inspiring image comes from chest of books.

Snake charmer of my youth. Glancing back at the days of simplicity. I told my mama I’d be a snake charmer someday. I’d seduce mystical serpents and charm beautiful women.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” mother scolded. “You will become an important man and command the country with your very fist.”

In mama’s fragile, dark eyes, I can see the snake charmer bedazzling a crowd in the smoked sun. I can breath in the air of the bazaar. I can smell the scent of young women adorned in shimmering saris.

I’m in an office building as high as the blue heaven. In stature, I am an important state official as my mother prophesized. But I long to be the snake charmer casting a spell with my flute.

A Visit From Fairies

Hi all,

I am posting this for Thursday Tales. The accompanying art is by Michaël Zancan at DeviantArt.

John had spent the entire evening daydreaming in his dorm room. He loosened his grip on the paintbrush and drifted off into a long dream. He could feel the gentle light of dawn caressing his arms. The walls opened up, and he basked in the hour of sunlight. Vegetation sprouted from the earth and grew along the four corners of his walls. He spotted beautiful, foreign creatures with wings as fairies. They flickered in shades of blue and teal and rested along his body. They spoke in hushed, little voices. John rested his head and marveled at their angelic song.

When John woke, the light had receded and descended into night. He could hear the muffled voices and cackles of his roommates beneath the door. He unearthed new longing and inspiration as visions of his dream came alive on canvas. Little fairies rested their wings on his mind. They burst in ripe colors as he painted feverishly through the night.

Anne's Heart

Hi all,


I am writing this short story for Thursday Tales. The photo is by Media Bistro. I hope you enjoy it!

Anne’s heart went pitter patter against her chest. She felt it rise, leap, and rattle in her ribcage. Robert wrapped a blindfold around her eyes. The color of the fabric was dark as midnight. He caressed her long, red hair as it settled against her waist.

“Are you ready for the surprise,” he whispered. He pressed his lips against her neck.

“Yes,” she squealed in one, excited breath.

“Wait here,” he instructed. She heard his heavy boots scuttle against the floor. His walk had always been loud, defiant, and clunky. She couldn’t help but laugh. She lifted her hands midair. The walls grew distant as she settled into nothingness. She drifted into the great silence around her.

Robert spun her around and they embraced. Anne’s world remained dark and she grew impatient.

“Can I look now?”

“Not yet,” Robert laughed. He opened the palms of her hand and dropped a small, red box. Then, he released her from the darkness.

Anne gazed down at the box and shook it. She heard the clinging of a chain rattling snakelike. As Anne tore away the red ribbon, she sprung open its contents.

She ran her fingers along a beautiful, gold heart. She opened the lock and discovered a tiny picture of her and Robert. Tears trickled along the sides of her cheeks.

“I love my heart,” she cried. Love poured out of Anne in new measure. She pressed the lock against her chest and lost herself in a passionate embrace.

Little Sun

Hi all,

I've written this short story for Thursday Tales. I like the idea of dipping into longer prose and this photo provides lovely inspiration. The artist is Einshine at DeviantArt.

Amy Lee hated the white walls in her father’s office. Sometimes, she waited for hours staring blankly at the blinds. The sunlight was visible and teased her. Saturdays were most unpleasant here, she thought. She watched the stone faced people file in gray suits. They didn’t smile, laugh, or talk. She stuck out her tongue at them. The gray suits marched in anger and scolded her.

Secretary Wan was very kind to the young girl. “Come here little sun,” she laughed. She coaxed Amy Lee towards a glass table and magic marker.

“This is a special, magic marker. You can imagine anything with your mind and put it here.”

“I wish I could paint my father’s walls,” Amy Lee sighed.

“Use your imagination,” Wan instructed. Amy Lee took the blank notebook and marker. She laid her elbows on the cold, glass table and noticed her own reflection. The room did not inspire her. Restless, she swung her legs back and forth and banged into the table. Secretary Wan rushed over to her young guest.

“Little Sun, what’s wrong?” Wan raised her brows in horror. Amy Lee didn’t answer but crossed her little arms.

“I don’t feel like drawing! I want to go out and play,” Amy Lee shouted. Her voice echoed and stung Wan.

“You can’t leave the lobby,” Wan informed her. Amy Lee’s eyes grew thick and blue and tears began falling down.

“Don’t cry Little Sun. I am a very good artist and shall make something for you.” Amy Lee dried up her tears and tugged at her skirt.

“Please draw for me! I’d like that very much.” Wan leaned in and pressed the magic marker against paper. Amy Lee gasped as a yellow butterfly flew from her pen. It was sweet and yellow like her shirt. She framed the butterfly around pretty, pink roses and green stems. She filled the whole paper with butterflies and flowers. Amy Lee danced in a beautiful meadow of art.

“Can I keep it,” Amy Lee exclaimed.

“Of course, Little Sun. And I have one more surprise in store.” Amy Lee hopped at the word surprise. She giggled and clasped her hands against her face. Secretary Wan rolled out a projector and filled the white walls with beautiful art.

Her father had emerged and glanced at Secretary Wan. “I hope my little Amy Lee has been no trouble.”

“Oh no, Mr. Lee. She’s been very sweet. Little Sun and I have spent the day making art.”

The Dream/ Four Calling Birds

This story is written for Thursday Tales and the fourth day of Christmas: Four Calling Birds. The accompanying photo is by Preetilata at White Window.

When Salvador dreamed, the world of noise, car horns, and traffic receded from memory. A quiet darkness washed over him like spilled ink. He drifted in his chair and heard the rain cascade against his window. His eyes dropped low like the sun setting deep.

A dream slowly kindled within him, flickering like a white moon in the night. Four, silvery shadows drew tantalizingly near him. Dancing, their arms circled above like wings. Their hair strung together in a collective symphony. Four calling birds nestled softly beside him. Perched on either sides of his arms, he gathered in speed and flight. He could drift to the farthest depths of the universe. He could swim amongst the stars and drink in the galaxies.

A knock at the door woke him amidst the glare of the streetlight. Car horns honked mercilessly and traffic snaked along wet pavement. The rainstorm had exhaled into the night of purple haze. He had hoped the dream would never end.

Trip Round the World

Hi bloggers,

It's been awhile since I posted for Thursday Tales. This week's entry is inspired by PompaElite.

“I’ll take a trip round the world papa,” Gloria laughed. She was amused by the neon lights and painted clown faces. Papa grinned back at her with his righteous smile. She saw an image of herself in his large glasses, twinkling in the dark.

“How about the merry-go-round?” He hoisted her up on his shoulders, and she watched the majestic horses rise and float on air. They were lemon dropped, gray, red, and blue. He cradled her softly in his arms and squeezed her in a big embrace.

“I love horses,” she laughed and sprinted towards the line of children. Papa lifted her on a rose colored horse, and she leaned in close to his face.

“I’ll be right here watching you,” he whispered and kissed her black, curly forehead. She raised her head up and smiled. He watched her rise and fall on the red horse. The merry-go-round soon became a vast, circle of colors. He caught a glimpse of her spinning madly, fluttering in a whirl of children and carnival lights.

He remembered the evening as she met him in a trail of white. She was an ethereal bride in crystals and pearls. Her dark curls were swept up in a crown.

“Papa, one last trip around the world?” Her grin was infectious as she slipped into his arms. He embraced his daughter once more.

“Yes, my little Gloria.” And they glided down the aisle as the world spun in place.

Barefoot Model

Hi bloggers,

The following story is posted for Thursday Tales. The accompanying image can be found here.

The world was singularly more fascinating through a lens. He enjoyed the inertia of photos, their place in time and space. The brilliance of the sky forever blue. The grandeur of church steeples against the skyline. But his favorite subject were people: a bicyclist, a couple holding hands, an old man with worldly eyes. His subjects were usually unaware of his spying, his intrusion on daily living.

He became particularly fond of his father’s old camera. A time piece into the brilliant world of black and white. “You’ve got a photographer’s eye,” his father chirped, entrusting him with the antique camera. He felt its delicate weight in his palms. How many scenic adventures and routes did the lens capture, witness? He laid the worn, leather strap against his neck and the camera swayed against his heart.

He observed the world in motion, the brilliant sky and clouds swimming in heavenly pools. But a black and white sky didn’t resonate with him so he turned his gaze on city people. They were blank, heavy, and stone faced, carved out of responsibility and engagement.

He was roused by a defiant laugh. A young girl tottered on the edge of a sidewalk like a trapeze artist. She wore a peppery dress and sported bare feet. Her little toes swept against stone like a brush upon canvas. She charmed him in the bliss of childlike simplicity. He raised his camera and clicked. Conscious of his lens, her eyes narrowed and she puckered her lips in dissatisfaction.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to spy,” she scolded. She folded her arms and raised her chin.

“Don’t be angry little girl,” the young man smiled. “I’m a photographer and you are the perfect model.”

“Really,” she blushed. Pink rushed to her face in one, brilliant burst.

“Yes, it will be a prize photo worth a million dollars.” She jumped at the world million. The young man took the girl’s name and address. In a bright, pink envelope he wrote: To my barefoot model.

Thursday Tale: Old Friends

Hi bloggers,


This story is written for Thursday Tales.

Leanne was a sight to behold in her pink, frilly tutu. Uncle fancied her with cowgirl boots and a wide brim hat. Her eyes swam in blue skies along fresh, green meadows.

“She’s a real country gal,” we laughed, as she modeled her new clothes.


The country air buoyed Leanne’s spirit. At home, she was the shy girl with dark eyes. But visits to Uncle’s farm sparked a quiet brilliance in her. In the wind, we watched her soar with invisible wings.


“I’ve got one more surprise for you Leanne,” Uncle jested with a jovial smile. “How bout it ole’ girl. Let’s go have a look.” Her deep, brown eyes leapt up in wonder as we walked alongside her. A large, chestnut horse was visible beyond a wooden fence. Leanne looked up with tears in her eyes.


“For me,” she asked softly. She tottered slowly towards the fence, her arms stretching in the wind. Her mind had already embraced the horse, stroked its wide back, and laid against warm chestnut. But the horse barely raised its head to look at her. She trotted slowly in the opposite direction.


“Horsey,” Leanne wailed. Shakily, she climbed the fence, shrieking at the top of her lungs. No one could reach Leanne before she tumbled into the horse’s field. She sobbed uncontrollably in the grass. Her fingers tugged mercilessly at her dress and tears stung her cheeks.


Instinctively, the horse galloped towards Leanne. Her hooves thundered in a rapturous trot. Uncle cautiously laid down his hat and stooped beside her.


The horse dropped her brown neck low swinging her dark mane. Leanne smiled and rested her hand against its nose. Their eyes met in quiet contemplation greeting as old friends frequenting time and space.

Tree of Love

Hi bloggers,

The following is posted for Thursday Tales. The accompanying image is given by MaNik.

She wore canary yellow in the silver fog, the folds of her dress dancing like a flame. She leaned her body over the edge of the bridge. A school of fish glimmered past her in a swirl of blues and greens.

She hailed an ultimatum, last night, by telephone. The chord nearly ripped out of the wall. Her tears were loose and kissed her cheeks where he should have been.

She begged him not to go on this trip. She wished he postponed his rendezvous and embrace her one last time. His voice was hollow and dead through the receiver. The earth turned over in her mind.

She insisted they meet at the bridge. At dawn, she rose with vigilant resolve. Her body trembled in the fragile air. But one glimpse of him would assuage all her fears. He couldn't possibly travel without bidding her ado.

The fog grew enormous pressing her into a strange embrace. She fantasized his hands race against her skin and seize her with a kiss. Unyielding to the bitter cold, she planted her feet as roots.

In the velvet night air, the wind cried out, “Your hour is nearly spent. You shall surely die if you remain here. But we shall grant you one wish.”

Tearfully, she contemplated her fate. “I ask for nothing except a tree be planted in my place. May it bring remembrance to the one I love.”

By morning, a tiny tree sprouted in a woman’s frame. The tree grew sturdy and strong adorned in yellow leaves. And all who passed by declared her the Tree of Love.

Thursday Tales: The Bridge

Hi all,

This is posted for Thursday Tales. The accompanying photo is by mjagiellicz.

She was lulled by the palette of sky revealing itself on her skin. She watched a shade of yellow mix with pink and blues. Her body drifted softly in the breeze. She felt infinite gratitude for silence in the universe. The river was desolate of passersby, and she gazed ahead at a dilapidated bridge. It lay like a broken wreckage of time. Her father told her the bridge had been abandoned fifteen years ago. It was older than her. Perhaps older than the sun, moon, and sky.

Her young mind wandered beyond the bridge. What treasure lay beneath the wreckage? She envisioned pearls, rubies, and diamonds shimmering beneath the sea.

She tottered slowly across its wooden frame and dropped low towards the river’s face. Her own reflection beamed back at her, which made her laugh. The sun shimmered like a fish and splashed beneath the sea. She stood with outstretched hands bridging earth and sky.

Sands of Time

Hi everyone,

Here's another edition of Thursday Tales. The accompanying photo is by Proud of Being Strange.

My heels traversed the sands of time. The days were never ending, slowly receding like the blue waves of the sea. The sun is full like my youth with its brilliant face. My bare feet sinks beneath the heat. I chase the shadow of me. A youthful, buoyant girl who flaps her hands as wings. The waves splash over our legs and kiss our knees. The young girl drifts beyond my reach, and she shimmers like a fish to the bottomless sea.

My ears were romanced by the flames of love, and I heard the laughter of a distant crush. I swung before him like a figurine. The wind swept up my hair, and he caressed me. I called out to the bronze lovers in the sun, but they ignored me dazzled by a fiery love. My eyes mourned the woman that was me and paused in silence by the still, blue sea.

I drifted off before the setting sun. The plumage of purple, gold, and pink swept in love. I counted the footprints of former me. How I long to remain here for all eternity.

Skin (Thursday Tales)

Hi bloggers,

Here is a short piece for Thursday Tales. The artwork above is by Xianlove.

She loved his brown skin. He was rich and tall like mahogany trees gazing out of her window. His eyes were deep like the midnight sun. She could watch the stars twinkle there. She loved the way his soft, thick hair danced in the wind. He slipped his brown fingers between hers and spread them out like butterfly wings. When they embraced, the world saw black and white. She didn’t mind a million eyes prying at them, inspecting their skin. And they wondered aloud, “Why was she with him?” He was beautiful, brown, and deep, she answered. And the prejudice of race and time dissolved beneath them. They gave themselves to love.

Thursday Tales: A Winter Story

Hi bloggers,

This is a weekend edition of Thursday Tales. The story is a bit long but I hope you enjoy it. The winter subject is a nice way to cool off from the heat. The accompanying photo is by AtXU.

A fresh dollop of winter snow fell softly on our lawn, shimmering on the street below.

“The snow reminds me of sugar,” Rosie spoke affectionately, raising her face above a mug of hot chocolate.

“No, white frosting,” Peter shouted above her head. He shoved himself between Rosie and I, his dark eyes gazed longingly out the window.

“What about you, mommy,” Rosie asked. A chocolate mustache now appeared on her pink lips. I laughed and wiped the chocolate from her face.

“I think the snow is a wonderland,” I chirped excitedly. I gathered the children into my arms, like young chicks, and squeezed them into a bear hug.

“Winter wonderland. Like the song.” Rosie was tickled by my answer and hummed the tune in her head.

“Winter snow reminds me of a story,” I said in a serious tone. Their earnest faces gazed up at me in wonder.

“Tell us mom,” Peter shouted excitedly.

“Yes, please tell us mommy,” Rosie squealed. I nestled my chicks closer to me and soaked up their warmth.

“There once was a young man who loved a girl very much. He had fallen in love with her during the first winter snow. He watched the flakes fall on her dark hair. Her eyes were also dark, and her cheeks were blue from the cold. She wore a canary yellow coat, which danced and flickered in a sea of white. He asked for her name, and she replied with a laugh Sapphine. He buried her name deep in his heart.

“He made snow angels with young Sapphine, and she threw snowballs at his head. They played until the sun lowered its head beneath translucent snow. She kissed him goodbye, and it was icy and sweet like ice. He tarried longer in the snow and slid like a seal on his belly. He returned into town, but his bike was missing from where it once laid. The darkness fell upon him like stone, and the heavens ushered in a blizzard. The wind cut against his skin and beat him to the ground. The snow swallowed the legs beneath him, and his limbs turned to frost.

“He thought he would turn to ice and breath no more, but he beheld angelic light in the distance. An angel in yellow lit his path and melted the snow beneath him. She led him in the darkness, and he took refuge in a stranger’s home. In the morning, he rode his bike on the slippery ice, Sapphine wrapped around him, and they drifted home by winter’s light.”

I ended the story and gazed upon my children. Their eyes were wide as saucers, and their mouths formed into little O’s.

“Was the girl in yellow the angel,” Peter asked.

“It could have been,” I answered. “One can imagine it that way. That’s the beauty of the story.”

Peter is restless and swings himself off the couch. “I’m heading out,” he shouts huffily.

“Put on your boots,” I reminded him, resting a kiss on his forehead.

“Me too! Me too,” Rosie shouts, dressing beside her brother. They push past me in a ball of coats, hats, scarves, and mittens. I slide into my canary yellow coat and breath in the cold, wintry air. They sprinted on like shadows. I stood in the distance lighting their way home.