Author’s note: On Friday, April 30, 2010, I wrote a #fridayflash story called “Wrenge.” Since that day the Wrenge has been begging to become a longer story . . . she swears that she has more business to take care of . . . I’ve decided to turn her lose. I hope you enjoy my first #TuesdaySerial:
During twilight hours on the day Elizabeth Michaels was laid to rest -- one more statistic in the journals of domestic abuse -- a small Memphis cemetery spawned the Wrenge.
Born from the persistent cries of abused women, the Wrenge tentatively extended leathery wings. Equipped with wings, she'd rise above the suffering and pain of her creators. Her leathery skin carried the blue and purple bruises of countless abused women -- giving her a dark, mottled image. A silvery sheen of tears, shed by thousands, gave the Wrenge an iridescent glow against the darkening night sky. Her face, shadowed by the twenty-foot wingspan, carried the hollowed anguish of many faces. A spark of determination glittered in her deep-set black eyes: determination, which had often arrived too late to help its couriers. These crumbs of resolve, pooled together, gave the Wrenge colossal strength and almost weightless stability as she lifted her powerful wings and soared high above Memphis. Owls and bats shrank from the huge dark shadow whose breath carried the stench of death.
Continued . . .
Riddle me this... - *?* When is a writer not a writer? *A * When he doesn't write. Despite my best intentions, I'm no longer compelled to wri...
3 weeks ago