Bringing Bright Ideas to Life:  My Flash

The orchards wake before the house is stirred, Before the ridge lets go of lingering frost. By dawn the branches, spare as winter bones, Are filmed with white the night has breathed upon. It happens row by row without a sound— A quiet brightening along the slope, As if the Valley loosed a careful sigh And let it settle, petaled, in the light. The bees come early, diligent and sure, To read the fragile script from bloom to bloom. Below, the grass remembers colder days; Above,

In the town of Marrow Glen, truth arrived quietly and left without applause. Lies, on the other hand, came with fireworks. His name was Gideon Vale, though most people called him Gid, and eventually—behind cupped hands and glowing screens— they called him the Jester . Not because he was funny. Because he performed. Gid wore spectacle like a tailored coat. He could not enter a room without rearranging its gravity. If someone mentioned the weather, he would tilt his head and mu

There was a time hurt sat in my chest like a locked room no windows, no air. It spoke in the language of almost— almost loved, almost chosen, almost enough. I carried it quietly. Folded it into my pockets. Let it bruise me from the inside. But hurt is restless. It does not like to stay small. It became hunger. Not for revenge— for proof. Proof I could rise without becoming cruel. Proof I could build without breaking others the way I was broken. So