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  from The Brightest Firefly by Dacia M Arnold

Writing a World

I write in the wee morning light, when everything slumbers and the morning is merely a pink-orange glow. When the night animals tuck in their dark spaces to escape the light and the day animals roll sleepily from where they claimed as home the night before. When my children are snuggled so warm and peaceful and my husband’s feet are still warmed by the pup at the foot of our bed. The crickets have stopped and the birds have not started. This is the silence that awakens my muse.

My wooden desk sits slightly shorter than most, but it is perfect for me. It’s old and worn - soft to the touch. The front ledge is rounded from generations of pen wielding arms pulled from left to right creating hand written letters, stories, poems. Parchment replaced by technology: a double screen, wireless keyboard and mouse. The sentiment remains the same. These distract slightly from the vintage of the scene, but a necessity in the production of my craft.

My chair sometimes requires conscious balance. Leaning back is a guaranteed concussion, but the arm rests still serve their purpose. The cushion needed reupholstering when my grandmother was a child. The red, orange, and yellow fibers are still vibrant nearest the wooden frame, but the seat has a comfortable divot to accommodate my posture. Nothing comes close to this custom fit. I have purchased n...







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