Member-only story
Swinging Sun
A poem a day (Day 4)
Her hands would dance atop the water
a shimmering ballet
And when fell set
like the dust
it was retirement in silence
with a beautiful promise
to swing when the music started again
The first line is taken from my short story The Last Witch, which is undergoing a rewrite at the moment for a class assignment. The story itself is quite gloomy, with a distinct lack of sunlight, and explicitly finite narrative, cycling into misery as the residents of a seaside town are flooded with hauntings.
I took the line and title and wondered what it would look like if I took it in a completely opposite direction? In this poem the witch falls (dies) in silence, not a storm, with the promise to return, so she can protect and enrich the town once more.
