Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales
Bio
I love to write. I have a deep love for words and language; a budding philologist (a late bloomer according to my father). I have been fascinated with the construction of sentences and how meaning is derived from the order of words.
Achievements (1)
Stories (318)
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Ferns on Glass, Wings in Air
“Beauty is fleeting, yet each vanishing carries the promise of return.” I used to wake before anyone else, creeping to the window with a child’s quiet hope. Indiana winters had promised something I’d never known before: snow. Each morning after the air had turned sharp, I pulled back the curtain to see if the world had changed overnight. Sometimes my mother was already in the kitchen, beginning the long preparations for Thanksgiving dinner, but the rest of the house was still asleep. I pressed my fingers against the windowpane and startled at the shock of cold. Frost feathered the glass into white ferns, fragile and secret. Once, I touched them, and watched them vanish under my fingertip, dissolving into water. That was the first lesson of winter: beauty was fleeting, and I could not hold it still.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Humans
The Allegory of the Hidden Fountain
“We live many lives within the span of one, and each teaches us how to walk the next.” Prologue – The Longing There were stories told in the hush before dawn—stories of a spring that could unbind time. Some said it hid beneath the ribs of mountains, others that it pooled beneath an old ruin where ivy learned the names of stones. The stories disagreed on the map, but none argued with the ache. The ache was universal. It hummed beneath the skin of the world like a second pulse: the wish not merely to live longer, but to live truer, to be held by something that did not end.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Waiting Room of Snow
“The room would keep her secrets, but the words would travel with me.” I did not come to Amherst only to see a house. I came because my mother is gone, and poetry is the only way I still hear her voice. Emily Dickinson’s lines were her language of comfort, the words she sent to steady me in my struggles, the playful refrains she spoke when I felt unseen. Two years have passed since she left this world, yet when I read Dickinson, it is my mother who answers. So I came here, to the Homestead, to step into the silence where her voice and Emily’s still meet.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Fiction
The Silence That Remains
“Every meal is a prayer, whether you mean it to be or not.” Maybe the most wonderful meals are an expression of magical influences, and the acceptance of the supernatural is just an acknowledgment of spirituality. My grandmother used to whisper that over a pot of simmering stew, as though the rising steam carried prayers no one else could hear. I believed her, because the kitchen was always alive — onions sighing as they softened, herbs releasing their secrets, bread splitting open like laughter.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales4 months ago in Humans
