Storygram #130
I heard of a place called the Striking Tree, where lightning from a mysterious storm cloud strikes the tree every hour. They said that’s where I had to go, if I wanted to find my worth.
Storygram #129
She tossed dirt onto the embers of her campfire and took in the mountain view from her bluff. Such beauty could only reside in the vast landscapes she often hunted through. The human heart was too small to contain beautiful things.
Storygram #128
A cold breeze swept across the lake, slicing through her, effortlessly. She was too small and frail to present a challenge to anything like the wind, which made her an easy target to everyone she met.
Storygram #127
A layer of snow is covering everything, concealing the ugliness of the shivering earth underneath. It all seems too beautiful, too perfect. I brace myself for the onslaught of ridicule from her, covering my heart with a layer of contentment as fleeting as the snow.
Storygram #126
She cursed at having to park several houses down the street. They were supposed to keep everyone out until she got there. Now, half the nation’s news media was contaminating her scene.