Guest writer - Bree

Sadly, work has made a mockery of my writing in the last week or so. I promise to try and write some things today.

We do have a guest, though. I really like what she wrote. - S



words: Puddles. When I was younger, I loved puddles: the incredible sound of my yellow goulashes landing right in the middle of the tiny, temporary lake; the round spots of mud that ended up splattered on the backs of my pants or dresses for which my mother always scolded me; the just-hatched tadpoles we'd find, and catch, in the most stagnant pools on paths in the woods. Puddles were, in short, my childhood.

Now I walk around puddles; my black pumps would not protect me from the agony of 8 hours of soggy pantyhose, feet, and shoes. I stand here waiting for the bus. I see the city's reflection in the gutters below. Cars sloosh by, and I jump back at every pass for fear of being splashed. The mud would ruin my pressed suit. There are no tadpoles here. Just cigarette butts, gravel from the asphalt, and memories.

Photo - N
Words - B