if this wasn't such a love story I would really like it Sarah. Paced so finely, tuned to an old mans memories of the one who said yes, finally, the week before he was to be married. God knows his regret of courage when he needed it most.
don't make this any longer or shorter it is perfect as it is. I still see her twirling my heart around her finger in her raven black hair, one more time again. The regret fades but never the memory.
I love those moments when the ordinary is transcended by the mood/melody/muchness of it all. They somehow stay pure and true, despite the fog of memory. Precious in their imperfections.
I love the way you captured the innocence of that first feeling of adoration of another. Before it 'means' anything. Sweet and innocent. Don't you wish you could go back sometimes?
Whoa, Wendy and Cat, both made an appearance. Blogger reunion indeed!
I have to admit, this is the best piece that I've read of yours in quite a while. Including the stuff, you've sent over mail.
This is something special. May be because, everyone can connect to it on some level. And tonight, when I'll hit the pillow, I know my mind is going to wander off to places, it's not visited in a long time.
Now I'll have to shift some things, to make this the centrepiece in The best works of Sarah Hina anthology.
I liked writing this one. It was a softer transition to writing prose again, since it was more of a reflective piece. God help me if I ever have to write a straight-on, linear piece of fiction again.
A centerpiece in the anthology? Well, damn. Better keep writing them, I guess.
(Truthfully, I wrote this with you in mind, because I knew it had been ages since I wrote a flash piece. SO THERE.)
9 comments:
if this wasn't such a love story I would really like it Sarah. Paced so finely, tuned to an old mans memories of the one who said yes, finally, the week before he was to be married. God knows his regret of courage when he needed it most.
don't make this any longer or shorter it is perfect as it is. I still see her twirling my heart around her finger in her raven black hair, one more time again. The regret fades but never the memory.
I'm happy this struck a chord for you, Mark.
I love those moments when the ordinary is transcended by the mood/melody/muchness of it all. They somehow stay pure and true, despite the fog of memory. Precious in their imperfections.
Really love this. Such great detail that you captured. And all that yearning, like fireflies trapped in a jar. Fine work.
I love the way you captured the innocence of that first feeling of adoration of another. Before it 'means' anything. Sweet and innocent. Don't you wish you could go back sometimes?
Wendy, what a perfect description for yearning. Thank you!
Cat, maybe sometimes. It was also excruciating, though. The unknowingness of it all. Certainly feels safer from a distance.
But yeah.
It's good to see you here again! Blogger revival!
Whoa, Wendy and Cat, both made an appearance.
Blogger reunion indeed!
I have to admit, this is the best piece that I've read of yours in quite a while. Including the stuff, you've sent over mail.
This is something special. May be because, everyone can connect to it on some level. And tonight, when I'll hit the pillow, I know my mind is going to wander off to places, it's not visited in a long time.
Now I'll have to shift some things, to make this the centrepiece in The best works of Sarah Hina anthology.
I liked writing this one. It was a softer transition to writing prose again, since it was more of a reflective piece. God help me if I ever have to write a straight-on, linear piece of fiction again.
A centerpiece in the anthology? Well, damn. Better keep writing them, I guess.
(Truthfully, I wrote this with you in mind, because I knew it had been ages since I wrote a flash piece. SO THERE.)
You say the best things.
But thanks to you, I've been depressed for a whole day now, thinking about that girl I had played ball with growing up. We don't even talk anymore.
Hope you're happy now, Heena.
Talk to her in your own flash piece.
You got to write that ache out, my young apprentice.
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