Writer, write.

Dear Fellow Writer,

Can you not see just how exquisite the story within you is?

It has been given to you because nobody else can tell it exactly the way that you can.

Every single experience you have been through, from the deep despair that nearly broke your spirit, to the rapturous that carried you to the brink of ecstasy, and all the mundane shades of every-day life in between; they have all left a memory within your cells.

Their very imprint remains on your skin.

Write about them.

Ignore the pain. Fight the hurt that threatens to strangle you in memories.

Give them life.

Somewhere, somebody is waiting to hear, no, needs to hear, the story within you.

Your story is calling to you.

Writer, write.

 

The feather.

The old man reached up with feeble hands. His unseeing eyes briefly lit up.

A weak smile broke on his face, “You’ve come,” he breathed, as his life finally escaped the diseased chains that had held him captive.

“It happens,” the nurse gently comforted the old man’s inconsolable wife, “chemicals in the dying brain sometimes cause the patient to have, well, visions.”

And, as she was about to start writing up the final report with the time of death, a single brilliantly-white feather floated, as if from out of nowhere, and landed softly on the bed.

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