L.A. Estabrook
Bio
My passion is to write fiction for all ages that inspires them to reach inside and use the gifts they are given. My books bestow a creative outlook on the norm. Topics I like include: scifi, fantasy, dystopian, coming of age, relationships.
Stories (3)
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To My Sisters in Arms
Dear Sister, I weep and groan for you. Who dares to fight? Who dares to live? When death knocks at your door. The shots of those around you call. Do not concede to death’s thrall. Your strength pulls from your depths, it hasten it out in a whisper, sometimes in a roar.
By L.A. Estabrook5 years ago in Poets
Hair Glorious Hair
Will you go bald? That was the first question I got when I told my kids what was going on. Really? They were worried about what I was going to look like. Hair for many people is part of who they are. Part of their heritage and lineage. It provides a bit of their personality. It has been what unities many and divides many. Color and texture of hair has been a tell tale sign for many if you had a trace of African in you. Weather you could pass or not. Golden rays provided a small prospect to escape from Hitler or to be doomed along with many others. Hair gives many the chance to show their proud colors. To sport a punk rock streak or a heavy metal tie. To give a node to your allegiance. What team you route for and where your heart lies. For some of us, hair is the thing we must let go of. It may be age pulling at us hunting and teasing us. Or it may be what the kids asked. Will I still have hair? That is the question that may tug at many like me. A stage 4 Cancer victim.
By L.A. Estabrook5 years ago in Blush
Healer's Journey
The iridescent blue glow consumed the room as Ardel’s arms swirled over the near corps that lay on the table, spotting and coughing blood. Her eyes darted to the small leather black book on the stool next to her. Ardel’s whispers heightened as the pages turned to the right incantation for her need. Lira peered around the archway. Her hands burned as blue sparks began to emerge. She clenched her fights, shut her eyes and plopped to the floor. The room's heat intensified as she heard screams from her father. The cottage shook as her mothers’ whispers of incantations grew to a boisterous bellow song. Sweat poured down Lira’s back as she shook. Not now, She thought. I am not ready. This only means one thing. I can not bear it, I don’t . . . I - I want to be normal.
By L.A. Estabrook5 years ago in Futurism
