Slowly the back story emerges through glimpse and observation, telling detail and emotional honesty, nailed on retrospective wisdom. Even the architectural landscape makes its contribution. Your style is so uniquely your own the reader sinks happily into your literary arms. Write on. Write because you must. And thank you.
One of my railroad memories was in the summer when as a teen a bunch of us juvenile delinquents were given axes and machetes to clear the brush away from underused tracks. What could go wrong?
Another more fun one was when a French girl I met in a Mediterranean port dive bar and we later took the overnight train up from Naples to Paris for my Christmas leave from military. We stopped in every village 😂
You never disappoint, Deer Girl. Between being frozen in Scotland (I spent several Christmases with a Scottish great-aunt) and the references to drunken hazes and the library toilet of Faulkner's south and pretending to know more about it than you do (my American ancestors were Confederates that my grandmother actually remembered, she sat on their ancient laps as a child, and bored me to death about "Mr. Faulkner"), and, oh, the young men who bullied and seduced with Economic and Political Theory, while we were trying to figure out ourselves, this world, and own strengths, well, I related too well. 🦌🤍
“Somewhere, always, a violin was tuning.” I love the beginning paragraphs when you are in summer, singing to midges. This feels so sad to me, and so keen a story about growing up and beyond choices we make. It’s always good, your writing. Each time I will thank you, for being here and for doing this lovely work and sharing it with us. Judi
Loved this...cool,beautiful,mysterious. For the last three weeks the heat index here has hovered around 104F...extremely high humidity like getting slapped with a wet,musty fleece blanket.Reading your story,I could almost feel a wisp of cold creeping in...aaahh...could see that twilight,gloaming thing I love so much. Thank you,Deer Girl,your writing is amazing.💜
This is raw and luminous, full of memory, disillusionment, and the aching weight of youth caught between idealism and desire. The sense of liminality is everywhere, between seasons, between politics and performance, between wanting to change the world and wanting to be seen. The writing hums with cold tension. Each image so textured and immediate. “Ghostlight in a city gone still” and “I’ll be a better Marxist next time” will stay with me. It feels like both a confession and a farewell.
Slowly the back story emerges through glimpse and observation, telling detail and emotional honesty, nailed on retrospective wisdom. Even the architectural landscape makes its contribution. Your style is so uniquely your own the reader sinks happily into your literary arms. Write on. Write because you must. And thank you.
Thank you for the encouragement! It means a great deal.
Your voice is special and speaks for itself. Do not hide. X
Beautiful, sad, tragic, and frozen.
I see you each time I allow you to dream. Unafraid to shout how I survived.
Thank you :)
Thank you! It was like a birthday present
Also… you just conjured a winter railroad memory of mine from childhood. It may be fun to tease that out.
Yes, please. I love reading winter scenes!
Then it shall be so. 🥶❄️🛤️
One of my railroad memories was in the summer when as a teen a bunch of us juvenile delinquents were given axes and machetes to clear the brush away from underused tracks. What could go wrong?
Another more fun one was when a French girl I met in a Mediterranean port dive bar and we later took the overnight train up from Naples to Paris for my Christmas leave from military. We stopped in every village 😂
Ok, that sounds really fun!
I’m a little worried you’re referring to the first paragraph…
Btw like how I left it open for the reader to imagine their own “ending”? I’m learning from you. Bwahaha!
Definitely the second paragraph!
„We were still young enough to believe cold was temporary.“
Love these lines!! 🤍
Thank you! 🫶🏻
You never disappoint, Deer Girl. Between being frozen in Scotland (I spent several Christmases with a Scottish great-aunt) and the references to drunken hazes and the library toilet of Faulkner's south and pretending to know more about it than you do (my American ancestors were Confederates that my grandmother actually remembered, she sat on their ancient laps as a child, and bored me to death about "Mr. Faulkner"), and, oh, the young men who bullied and seduced with Economic and Political Theory, while we were trying to figure out ourselves, this world, and own strengths, well, I related too well. 🦌🤍
I love that you have your own complicated history of Faulkner, frozen Scotland, and theory-slinging boys!
Speaking of detail! Love this so much—plus I love the freezing cold. Going to get ready for bed and read it again just before. x
Wow, I love this ... I can see it, taste it and feel it.🖤 🙏
Thank you Simone! 🖤
“Somewhere, always, a violin was tuning.” I love the beginning paragraphs when you are in summer, singing to midges. This feels so sad to me, and so keen a story about growing up and beyond choices we make. It’s always good, your writing. Each time I will thank you, for being here and for doing this lovely work and sharing it with us. Judi
Thank you Judi 🫶🏻
You are welcome and good morning!
Good morning! 😊
Oh my, I love these winter vibes, DG!
Thanks Luis!
Loved this...cool,beautiful,mysterious. For the last three weeks the heat index here has hovered around 104F...extremely high humidity like getting slapped with a wet,musty fleece blanket.Reading your story,I could almost feel a wisp of cold creeping in...aaahh...could see that twilight,gloaming thing I love so much. Thank you,Deer Girl,your writing is amazing.💜
Thanks Sandra! Humidity has been very high here too; it’s why I’m dreaming of winter.
You're welcome! I dream of winter too,we don't really have it here.
104F and extremely high humidity! Yikes. Stay hydrated.
Yikes is right! My cats and I always guzzling water...☺️
So much going on in such a small capsule.
A summer scene.. then a winter scene... And the flashbulb keeps going off, capturing the players with their complex dramas and emotions being exposed.
... Then the fade.
Thanks for reading! 🖤
wow loved this one
Thank you 🖤
Lovely. Very tasty piece. Well done deer queen! 🦌
Thank you 🖤
Nice! 🙂
Thanks :)
You’re welcome 🙂
🖤
This is raw and luminous, full of memory, disillusionment, and the aching weight of youth caught between idealism and desire. The sense of liminality is everywhere, between seasons, between politics and performance, between wanting to change the world and wanting to be seen. The writing hums with cold tension. Each image so textured and immediate. “Ghostlight in a city gone still” and “I’ll be a better Marxist next time” will stay with me. It feels like both a confession and a farewell.
Thank you; I love all of these observations. They’re spot on.
hiii i love ur writing and wld love if you get a chance to read my piece from today!! im trying to connect w writers i like their writing styles 💌💌💕💞
Thank you; I’ll give it a read 💗
thanks soo much i love connecting w other writers genuinely fills me w sm joy<3