morning - grace grits and gardening

A Brand New Day.

September 27, 2017 By Talya Tate Boerner 12 Comments

Our house silently waits for a brand new day. In the earliest morning, there is no world beyond the opaque windows around me, beyond my cup of coffee, my pen and journal. I recently started a new journal, but I don’t much like it. Yes, the cover is pretty, it has a satin ribbon to hold my place, the pages are lined, the edges gold-tipped. But the paper itself, the weight of the journal, something is off. The feel of a journal is important to me. (But I won’t waste paper, so I’ll continue using it.)

Lucy and Annabelle nestle beside me. They recognize this brand new day, this earliest morning time, the time that comes after sleep but before the day truly begins. It’s my preferred time to write, a time when my mind is rested, still somewhat in a dreamy state, unaffected by negative, external and internal. I protect this time fervently, and for the most part, they let me. With each small breath, their curled bodies float up and down, up and down. This is the quietest they will be today, yet their stillness could end instantaneously with an outside rustle imperceptible to me. The knowledge of this keeps me extra focused.Continue Reading

in the early garden

July 26, 2017 By Talya Tate Boerner 8 Comments

There’s a transparency in the early garden as fresh sunlight begins to filter down from Mount Sequoyah. Sweet air, clear thoughts, the dogs walk instead of sniff. O, the night-owls miss so much. I thank Daddy for my early-bird nature. And, Papa Creecy before him. Growing up in the Delta, I was surrounded by hard-working farmers who saw the sunrise every morning. It’s in my DNA. I bet if I do one of those ancestry tests, the early-bird farm girl slice of pie would be one of the largest pieces.Continue Reading

the break-in

July 31, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner 27 Comments

morgueFile

I sipped coffee and wrote in my journal. Beyond the window, daylight had not yet arrived.

Annabelle’s ears perked as the kitchen door rattled.

Once.

Twice.

Annabelle growled.

I raced upstairs to wake my husband.

“Someone’s trying to break in!”

John unlocked the door to find our daughter and her boyfriend enjoying a sunrise swim.

This post is written for The Write Tribe 55 word fiction, (mystery or love genre).

Often called “micro” or “nano” fiction 55 fiction is the art of creating a complete short story in exactly 55 words, no more, no less. Not an essay, not a poem, not a bunch of random thoughts, no musings. Just a potent piece of pure fiction that you’ve dexterously composed in 55 words.

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.