Rose Davies
Stories (4)
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The Lost Ocean
My name is Ivy Thomas. I am a Memory Keeper, as was my mother before me, and her mother before her. We are guardians of forgotten memories. She told me it was a gift passed from one generation to another, that it ran in our family as far back as the earliest centuries. You were either born with this gift, or you weren’t, but it had skipped very few generations. She also told me it was a privilege to guard what was precious to people when they could no longer guard it themselves.
By Rose Davies4 years ago in Fiction
Under the Pear Tree
When she first saw him Margot was on the train, tucked comfortably in her seat next to the window and enjoying the sights of the passing countryside. She was on her way home to the town she had grown up in, the town her grandmother still lived in. Every year on her birthday Margot took a week off work and spent it with her grandma, and every year the week was filled with baking, gardening, jam-making, and laughter. She would return to work and regular life in a state of bliss, with dirt under her nails, a belly full of tea and cake, and her grandmother's laughter still ringing in her ears. This year it was Margot’s twenty-fifth birthday, a decade since she had moved from her hometown. It was only an hour away by train, and because her grandmother lived in a small one-bedroom cottage Margot preferred to travel to and from each day. She enjoyed the quiet hour in the morning and the evening and would often read as the rock and sway of the train carriage lulled her into a state of relaxation.
By Rose Davies4 years ago in Fiction
Cupid's Arrow and Aaron's Marigold
August It had been an ordinary Tuesday for Aaron Egan. He was a barista, and so he spent his weekdays at Crème — a quaint coffee shop nestled in the entrance of the shopping mall. The morning had begun at a slow rhythm; cappuccinos for the retired couple, lattes and babyccinos for the young mothers and their obnoxiously loud toddlers, a soy latte with an extra shot for the man in the business suit, a London Fog “with oat milk” for the angry looking teenager, (who should have been in school, surely!)
By Rose Davies4 years ago in Fiction
Below Blue Skies
Irene Scott stepped out of the dim and grey confines of her ground floor unit and into a sun-soaked gust of spring air. It never ceased to amaze her, in her seventy-seven years of life, that days like this one still occurred. Warm, dry, and radiant. She could smell the earth beneath her feet, the concrete apartment blocks baking in the sun, and ever so faintly the scent of flowers in bloom, blown by the wind from some far-off place. The natural elements beamed with sheer happiness. Such a stark contrast in disposition to the one million residents of the City of Newland.
By Rose Davies5 years ago in Fiction
