In case you’ve ever wondered what goes on in an editor’s brain, her desire to conquer syntax can cause an awful strain. A typo, a misspelling, a hyphen out of place will etch a deep, deep crease upon an editor’s face.
If You say I’m Your daughter, why do I so utterly defenseless seem to be against all storms afire in the sky, against all hurricanes that stir the sea?
That sunny day I stepped upon a shell, its bitter clam’s edge digging in my sole. I remembered why we pain, remembered well. So I dug in deeper, dug deeper still, my foot on the shard in the fleeting hole, that sunny day I stepped upon the shell.
How like the mountain, confident, the world around me stands, defiant hands upon hips, lips issuing demands. Am I the only shattered soul who’s sometimes lost her way?