100 words (more or less) · writing

Wild Roses

Wild roses grow in tangles beside the river and imbue the air with sweetness. Their scent is soft, mellow, friendly—it does not have the sharpness of manufactured perfume or the saturation of cultivated roses.

The flowers are five pink petals open wide around a sunburst of yellow. They do not grow in tight, layered spirals on rigid stalks. Instead they climb in laughing sprays of leaves and buds, their winding vines bursting with the excitement of bumblebees.

They are a secret folded into the curves of the river, a delight as I glide past in the grey, early hours.

100 words (more or less) · writing


Rain, rhythmic on a taut umbrella—the stretched canvas too small to keep water from soaking the soft fabric of my coat. The legs of my slacks, drenched and dragging, and the grey sky unrelenting as the rain sheets down in heavy curtains. Spray comes up with each passing car—hulking bodies skidding and weaving as they barrel too fast into pools too deep.

Rain, so full of being-ness that doing-ness feels empty.

I shake off the umbrella and come inside. I shed my rain-heavy coat at the door, open the windows, and the pouring down murmurs in my ears all day.