A tall glass of sweet iced tea, The sun warm and the breezes cool, Children laughing, birds singing. Porch chairs to while away the afternoon, Good friends and good conversation, Nowhere to go, nothing else to do. Rocking, sipping, chatting… In those few precious moments, Serenity.
Author: Tara R.
I believe all good fiction includes an element of truth, and all good photography includes an element of fantasy. In this journal I hope to give voice to the stories swirling around in my head, and to capture the images I see through my camera’s lens.
Raising independent children
When I was a kid, around first grade-ish, I walked to school. It was less than half a mile from where I lived, but in my child-mind, and to my pudgy child-legs, it was at least five miles - both ways, up hill, in the snow. Across the street from my school, there was a … Continue reading Raising independent children
Beached clowns
“Man down! Man down!” My idyllic day at the beach was interrupted by a crew of red swim-suited emergency responders, a backboard held high over their heads, kicking up sand and seagulls, as they raced to the aid of a tourist in distress. Pushing my crumbled hemp sun hat back on my head, I squinted … Continue reading Beached clowns
A new generation
The story so far... “He’s close,” Abigail said. “You trust me, don’t you?” “Completely.” Barlowe took a deep breath as he gathered Abigail in his arms. “See you on the other side.” ### Quentin stood outside Abigail’s apartment, the anticipation of taking her and Barlowe together made his breath come in quick gasps. Materializing through the … Continue reading A new generation
Betrothed
The story so far... It will mean split second precision. If they make one slip, wait a second too long, then Barlowe won’t be able to assimilate and his body will die. There was only one way to lure Quentin to Abigail, and it was something Barlowe both dreaded and eagerly anticipated. ### Abigail came … Continue reading Betrothed
Swamp shadows
Like the desperate, and futile struggles of hapless victims caught in quicksand, pale limbed trees reach out of the swamp. Entrapped in a net of duckweed, strangling the color and life out of any competing plant, smothering it under a blanket of vibrant green, their shadows claw for a handhold, a life line out of the muck.
Thin spiral notebook 