Unknowingly, she sighed; a gentle sound, as the wet, almost weightless, sparkling liquid coated her fingertips. The momentary tingling sensation it infused, surprised her. She slowly raised her hand, fingers now clear of the liquid’s dazzling surface. Gripped delicately in her grasp, a previously white rose hangs its head. Silky scales spiraling out from somewhere deep within the flower itself. The flaring petals drip metallic droplets onto the harsh concrete floor on which she stands. A clumsy pattern of golden shades, somehow resembling stardust, encircle her bare feet.
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Kayleigh Turner
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More stories from Kayleigh Turner and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Taste of Beauty
February passed bitterly. I was left alone for long hours. When the night came, it brought with it a loneliness that only the most alienated from society could understand. A deep pain settled in my chest for a brief moment, before an erratic anxiety engulfed me. I sat and sat, paralysed by grief. My limbs grew colder and my thoughts grew darker with every passing hour. I could feel myself growing older.
By Kayleigh Turner5 years ago in Poets
Whiskey At Dusk
Guess the whiskey was more important to you in the end, wasn’t it? It was more than the well-being of your friends; more vital than showing up to the places you promised you would and could come to; more critical of a matter than fulfilling your damn responsibilities and getting the press off your back.
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