R.A. Moseley
Bio
Self proclaimed story-teller and dreamer, wrapped in one anxious ball of energy.
Stories (12)
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Subtle Disposition
The father, daughter dynamic can range from one of the most complicated, intricate or beautiful relationships that one could have. Some are lucky to have all three in a lifetime, some from birth and some so much later in life, if at all. My relationship with my father walks the tightrope between complicated and intricate, one could nickname it “delicate” even.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Families
The Fallacy of the Valley
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. At least that is what she was told and depending on who she asked the origin of the dragons ranged from a gradual emergence to a sudden onslaught. As the story typically goes, years before she was born, her people were forced to flee and seek refuge in some far off region, where half of those traveling died along the journey and the remaining are too old now and too traumatized to utter details beyond the fact that it did in fact happen. And the one’s young enough to remember held an impenetrable silence about the whole ordeal. As you can imagine, families grabbed what they could and rebuilt the best way they knew how. Now, years later, the descendants are left with tales and a crippling fear that the Valley is never to be sought out or even spoken about. So much so that they have been locked away and held to the strictest daily regime, only released at sunrise.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
Fleeing from France . Top Story - April 2022.
"The reality was that an iceberg was not the true culprit of Juliette’s heartbreak." Her senses were overwhelmed, her eyes trying to cut through the darkness. Her ears pierced by the sound of panic and destruction, her nose filled with the smell of smoke, the taste of salt water lingered on her tongue. Her hands cold and wet, Juliette clung to her two small daughters, shielding them from the ice cold wind and waves, in a lifeboat that didn’t seem sturdy enough to make the voyage, to land, wherever land was. Her tears froze at the peaks of her cheeks, not only traumatized by the unforeseen crash, but the mere fact that she was now alone. Two children under the age of 4 years old and one fighting to thrive in her womb and her husband lost among the wreckage.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
Goodbye Rhea, Hello Mommy
People often talk about the ‘5 stages of grief’ when referring to how to cope with a loss. Often the loss of a family member or friend, a childhood pet, a marriage or even love lost. Grief is rarely considered acceptable when referenced in the loss of one’s former self, the life or person you were before this or that happened. Taboo isn’t even harsh enough of a word to use, when someone (I am someone), uses grief to describe how they feel about their pregnancy or motherhood, because who would do such a thing.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Confessions
The Expectation of Time
My mother was a teacher, a Michelin star chef, a story teller, a therapist, a master gardener, a beauty queen, at least in my 13 year old eyes. She was a perfectionist, not that I had the vocabulary at ten to label her as such, it was only until adulthood that I could crown her with such a title. My father, on the other hand, was in constant disarray, disheveled and unkempt most days. His appearance wasn’t far removed from his presence, he was negligent to say the least, only appearing to hurl bearish demands at my mother and I before disappearing into the nearest bar.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
One Down Seven
My brother and I were only 13 months apart, practically twins in the eyes of our parents. We laughed loudly and obnoxiously at the same ridiculous things. We argued mercilessly everyday, about even more ridiculous things. We even found a way to communicate with one another, with slight taps on the paper thin wall that separated our bedrooms, long past our bedtime. Every Saturday morning we tapped on the adjoining wall to determine if the other was up, and if so, how we could quietly negotiate escaping to the living room, downstairs, to watch the Saturday morning cartoon marathon. The same line-up of shows, in a particular order, helped us tell what time it was and how long we had been watching, in case our parents asked once they woke up. We never had cable, but didn’t even know what there was to miss, ‘Pepper Anne’, ‘Doug’ and ’Recess’ kept us far too entertained to care what Nickelodeon was.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
Big Fish, Small Pond
My internal alarm clock eased me out of my sleep, as it did every single morning, even if I had just blacked out three hours prior. I went through the rehearsed motion of rolling over onto whomever was next to me, or rolling out of bed, depending on what the moment called for. This morning there was no one there to roll onto, but the crumpled sheets were still warm. I could remember parts of who had been there at some point, in the darkest part of the night. Soft lips, shrouded by a thick beard, a deep sensual voice that felt familiar even though I had only heard it for the first time hours ago, and a back almost too wide to wrap my arms around. I remembered how he felt, but would be lying if I said I knew what the face entering my bedroom, from my tiny kitchen, looked like.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
An Apple A Day
My grandma packed my grandfather’s lunch everyday, and mine when the time came for me to go to school. Usually, a turkey and cheese sandwich, his with mayo and mine without, a bag of potato chips, an apple and two quarters settled at the bottom. I bought a soda with those quarters on the first day of school of each school year to establish myself, set the tone. Most kids in school didn’t pack soda, mainly juice boxes or water, if their mom was a health freak. I was one of the only kids who had a soda. I would stop at the corner store on the walk to school, buy a can, and reveal it at the lunch table, you would think I pulled a bunny out of my hat based on the reactions.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
The Chocolate Effect
“My mom loves chocolate cake”, usually buttoned up and unaffected, Thomas beamed as he hovered over the cracked glass counter, in the tiniest bakery that Olivia had ever seen. The bakery reminded her of her grandmother’s kitchen, so small and hot, with sweet smells that made the discomfort worth it. Hoards of people, varying genus and taste pallets, swarmed the crowded space. You could almost reach out and write your name in the foggy glasses of the person standing shoulder to shoulder with you, waiting to place their order.
By R.A. Moseley4 years ago in Fiction
Duplicity
Every morning, she sat up, straining her eyes, to pierce through the darkness of her room. Every morning she tried to brace herself for the cold harsh sound of the metal doors and metal locks screeching across each other to release her, temporarily. As long as she had existed, this had been her reality. Released at sunrise, to work in one of the 5 locations predetermined for each citizen at birth, and at sunset return home to be secured and locked away once again. This was not just her reality as a captive, this was the only reality for everyone who still remained in this place. No one had free will, everyone was closely monitored and locked away each night, and carefully guided through each day, under the guise that this much control meant safety. This morning, the same as most, she sat stiffened, anticipating the sound that she hated most, but also needed to gravitate around. But this morning, it didn’t come, she waited for several moments before swinging her legs out of bed, and delicately placing her feet on the ground. Carefully shuffling through the darkness, she hesitantly reached out to guide herself to the front door, steadying her movements and her breath for what felt like hours. Beyond this final extension of her fingers was the frame of the door, and to the left of it the handle. A jolt of curiosity overpowered any rational thought that the door would be locked as it always was. She grabbed the handle and flung the door open. Before she could even grapple with the notion that this unlocked door could mean freedom, she was nose to nose with a familiar face.
By R.A. Moseley5 years ago in Fiction
