D6 Spring Writing Contest Short Story Winner
The water before me is dancing with millions of tiny shimmering diamonds. I’ve always believed it is magical. I know some will say it is just – what is it - refracted light, bent light – something scientific. I’ve never had much use for “scientific.” I’ve never seen the world in harsh straight lines or stark blacks and grays or in rules. I’ve always seen the world in soft swirls, in waves, in ebbs and flows, in bright colors, in maybes. In magic.
I prefer the world of diamonds dancing on the water, in Peter Pan and Wendy, in fairy dust, in Jack Frost. Oh, how I still love Jack Frost! I still remember when I first met Jack Frost on one bitterly cold, wintry Kansas morning, when the world was covered in glistening white and everything took on a fairy-tale glow, and he had left his frosted etchings on the window beside my bed. I remember my mother telling me how his artwork was always different, always beautiful. And magical, I thought.
I am almost as old now as my mother was when she died and I am acutely aware that I didn’t really know her at all. I am aware that I am unlike her in so many ways. I have spent my life like a butterfly in a chrysalis, trying to break my way out of the cocoon, always beating my wings furiously in an effort to breath, to stay alive, to overcome, to become, to dream.
The water before me is dancing with millions of tiny shimmering diamonds. I’ve always believed it is magical. I know some will say it is just – what is it - refracted light, bent light – something scientific. I’ve never had much use for “scientific.” I’ve never seen the world in harsh straight lines or stark blacks and grays or in rules. I’ve always seen the world in soft swirls, in waves, in ebbs and flows, in bright colors, in maybes. In magic.
I prefer the world of diamonds dancing on the water, in Peter Pan and Wendy, in fairy dust, in Jack Frost. Oh, how I still love Jack Frost! I still remember when I first met Jack Frost on one bitterly cold, wintry Kansas morning, when the world was covered in glistening white and everything took on a fairy-tale glow, and he had left his frosted etchings on the window beside my bed. I remember my mother telling me how his artwork was always different, always beautiful. And magical, I thought.
I am almost as old now as my mother was when she died and I am acutely aware that I didn’t really know her at all. I am aware that I am unlike her in so many ways. I have spent my life like a butterfly in a chrysalis, trying to break my way out of the cocoon, always beating my wings furiously in an effort to breath, to stay alive, to overcome, to become, to dream.