Taylor Ward
Bio
From a small town, I find joy and grace in my trauma and difficulties. My life, shaped by loss and adversity, fuels my creativity. Each piece written over period in my life, one unlike the last. These words sometimes my only emotion.
Achievements (1)
Stories (89)
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The heaviest room
Mimi had lived in a lot of places over the years, but the little rental house she had been in for the last ten seemed to cling to the family the way grief clings to breath. Quiet, persistent, and unwilling to let go. The house sat on old cinder blocks, perched over a shallow crawlspace where a stale wind lived year-round. It drifted through the floorboards with a coldness that felt almost alive, slipping between the boards, moaning through the joints like a thing remembering every sorrow it had ever known.
By Taylor Wardabout a month ago in Fiction
Sowing Light
There is a stirring across the fields of this nation, a quiet movement led by the Creator, calling children back to the earth. Farm schools are rising like shoots from well-tilled soil, guided by hands unseen yet tender and deliberate. These schools are more than classrooms. They are sanctuaries where the mind, the body, and the spirit are nourished. Here, children touch the soil and in doing so touch the Creator’s handiwork.
By Taylor Ward3 months ago in Education
The Golden Dust of the South
I learned about corn before I could read. Not from books, but from the hum of the gristmill at the edge of town, where the river bent like a snake around its foundations. The millstones turned slowly, grinding kernels into dust that smelled of sun and sweat and memory. A gristmill is a simple thing, or so it looks: two heavy stones, one above the other, spinning against each other to crush the corn. But simple does not mean unimportant. For centuries, gristmills were the heart of a Southern town. They ground the grain that fed families, that made cornbread and porridge and the sustenance of survival. They were places where women and men gathered, where news traveled faster than the river, where hands learned rhythm and patience and the art of making something from nothing.
By Taylor Ward3 months ago in Humans
When the world splits
In the town of Stillwater, there are those who say the river runs backward twice a year. It is only a trick of wind and moonlight, but to some, it means the Lord remembers what we forget. That was what Ella used to believe once, when she was seventeen and thought herself ruined by the truth growing beneath her ribs.
By Taylor Ward3 months ago in Fiction
