“Girls, sit down– we need to talk,” she said in a voice that was effortlessly gentle and firm. Without standing from her own seat at the circular table, she pulled out the two chairs on either side of her at once, her aging shoulders magnificently curved and cut with years’ long repetition of bearing weight.
The young women, each so accustomed in her own way to stiffening against authority, felt no impulse to buck the older woman’s command. She was worn to softness, and her eyes shone divine-lit kindness, and her wisdom– long, hard acquired– was a salve each woman ached to apply.
Present chose the cushioned chair and pushed a little at the stack of books before her so that each spine was aligned in a sturdy column. Past chose the wooden chair by default, and she wiggled just visibly enough to silently voice her discomfort.
Today I’m excited to share with you my first piece of published fiction, which is a part of my extraordinary friend Preston Yancey’s series, Conversations with Ourselves. I believe that the best fiction tells truth, so you will see in this post a glimpse of who I was, who I am, and who I hope to be– and, perhaps, even a little of yourself.