Creative Writing, Poetry

A Nostalgia

I yearn for the nostalgia, a time long before me, when it was all and only about the Lord; all and only about Christ.

A time where people’s faith was what governed the world, where beliefs were the most important and they were passed down from generation to generation.

A time where people were afraid to sin, and non-believers were unheard of, because they were all fearful of God and all that He stood for; as they should be.

A time where people leaned on the Lord for protection and for safety, where they looked to Christ for Love and for Grace.

A time where one could live in blissful solitude because, although they were not with others, they were always in the presence of the Lord.

I miss that time where the Holy Spirit could freely roam from person to person because He was always welcomed by everyone.

A time where people gathered in fellowship and in faith, to hear and learn the words of their Creator.

I want that time where everything was perfectly shaped, and no evilness was present.

I do sit and miss it.

Or do I sit and yearn for it?

Is that a time of the past?

Or is it a time yet to come?

I’m sure from the beginning of time there has always been wrong doing.

I must surely be dreaming forwards.

I have never heard of such a time in any sort.

I see this light, a light so powerful it burns out any evil that even thinks about coming close.

A light so bright it could only mean eternal joy.

Considering joy is not yet here, for everyone, this must be a time yet to come.

Creative Writing, Fashion, Fashion Flash Fiction

Bare Wrists

Her clutch fell to the ground unnoticed. Lucinda quickly swiped it from the floor and ran off through the closing doors of the tube. The District line at Victoria station was always a busy place. A place to meet up, a place to change lines, a place to blend in and a place to lose things. It was a busy place. Lucinda was shaking, from the adrenaline or maybe it was the crowds, large groups of people made her nervous. Yet she relished in them. She followed the signs to the Victoria line and she took a seat on the platform’s benches.
The bag wasn’t really a clutch, surely, it was too big and it didn’t have any handles however. Her blackened finger prints remained in contrast on the white leather. Lucinda pulled it open uncivilly. She found a copy of a British Vogue magazine in it folded opened on page 143, the August 2014 edition. Nothing else.
She put the bag beside her and sat up straight as though she were awaiting a train. She wasn’t waiting for a train because there was a train stood before her, doors wide open. The carriages were mostly empty too, but she didn’t take the getaway cart. She pulled her large, grey, felt hat down over her collection of blonde straw that tickled her eyebrows. Her hat and everything else she wore was grey and felt. Like an inmate of a grey- felt wearing secret society.
Lucinda chuckled and stood up for the pregnant lady who stood beside her. ‘Sit’ she said. The woman told her no because the train is now due, but Lucinda had walked away too soon to hear it.
She had decided she preferred the District and Circle lines and so she went back up to the platform. When she got off the stairs she stared up at the large gaping whole ever present in station celling. She changed her view to look at the information screen. The next train was delayed apparently. That was a first, she thought. She continued to stare until the information changed. And then she heard a woman crying and saying she was sure. Lucinda looked down toward the woman. It was her.
A few feet away the hysterical woman was pointing directly at Lucinda, shouting, “it was her she took my Lanvin clutch,” crying and clinging onto the Transport for London Customer Service Team Member. “I promise I’m sure. It was a big white bag with no handles. Get it back! Please.”
Bare wrist was a detail the grey-felt wearing inmates took pride in. And at that moment Lucinda was out, because a pair of sterling silver, metropolitan police hand-cuffs squeezed at Lucinda’s wrist.
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