Author Kelly Moran           

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  ~Synopsis~

        Kelly Moran's collection of poetry addresses topics that range from love and dreams to despair and grief. Her sonnets grab your attention and move you any way you look at it. Her eclectic blend of short stories are both heart- stopping and intriguing. They delve into the unknown and, whether you are superstitious or not, make you think. This book is the perfect blend for souls who love a good story and are willing to keep an open mind. At times the gut-wrenching verses draw you to tears while the short stories have an inexplicable way of making the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up at attention and give you an urgent need to look behind you.

~Excerpt~

   (Page...32)                                                   Twilights End

She saw it so clearly in the dead of twilight,

What the sun used to bring with its morning light.

A scrapbook lays open on a hardwood floor,

Hauntingly sweet memories from days of yore.

The photos now half-covered in dust,

Wishing for someone who simply must

Turn the page and see it all again,

All the journeys and lifelong friends.

When she was so small with dancers’ feet

Or perched on her grandmother's window seat.

The endless chapters a pen had dealt

Or the joy of her publication on a shelf.

So many prints scatter the walls,

A tiny ballerina at curtain call,

A magical forest dark and deep,

With a fairy peacefully asleep at its feet,

A long dark tunnel with a light at the end,

Waiting patiently, the hand of a friend.

The burgundy room from end to end

Is filled with books yearning to be read again.

An old tattered map in a dusty worn frame

Holds secrets of a world unwoven just the same.

In the corner still sits the cold leather chair,

Waiting for a soul again to show it some care.

The garden out back where flowers adorned

Holds little life now as the leaves are all torn.

The bench in the courtyard needs a good mend,

For it sits, encased in shadows, awaiting its friend.

The long gray grass in the winds do sway,

The roses have all dried and been carried away.

Trapped in twilight, this endless dismay,

…It was just my dream anyway.

________________

(Page 67...)                    Letter to Grandma

            It was a dreadful day for a funeral.  The brisk October winds took precedence over the sunset colors of the trees.  The beauty of their death overlooked the free spirit that was not so gracefully placed in the ground.

            Yes, it was a dreadful day all around.  Jonathon Vinci watched the rows of faces and streams of tears. Some were wiped away, others left to fall.  Out of instinct and need for immediate comfort, he took hold of his cousin Kenya’s hand and tried to hold back his tears.

            Dad said 'men don’t cry', and though he was only twelve, he wanted very much to be a man.  Kenya returned by squeezing his hand, her profile so pale except the bit of pink on her genetically pointed nose.

            Walking back to the inviting black car the dying grass crunched under his dress shoes.  Once inside Kenya leaned over, her eyes not reflecting her eleven years but of that of someone much older, and whispered, “When we get back we should write a letter to Grandma. To say goodbye.”

            Jonathon looked at her, very much confused.

            Sensing that, Kenya quickly added, “She won’t be able to read it, but at least we can talk to her somehow.”

            They sat together, knee to knee in their grandmother’s basement.  The deep orange shag carpet ran length wise and smelled of spring rain.  Dark wood paneling covered the walls and for the first time in his memory, made their sanctuary eerie somehow.

            Kenya put the notebook in her lap. “What should we say?”

            “I don’t know. This was your idea.”

            Kenya sighed dramatically and began to scribble down something, mumbling as she went.  “Dear grandma, we...miss…you.”

            Jonathon nodded for her to continue when she looked up.  This felt all wrong.  Grandma’s bright blue eyes would never read this.  She would never know what they wanted to say.  She was dead, his mind said, with a swift wave of sorrow.

            “Everyone was…there…today to…say goodbye.  But…we wanted…to write…you a letter.”

            Kenya looked up with worry between her brows.  “Jon, who will make the lasagna now that she’s dead? Or who will hide the Easter eggs?”

            He shrugged, wishing the tears in his throat would swallow down.  “Our parents, I guess.”

            “We hope…you are happy…in…Heaven and…we…miss…you.”  She looked up, “I already said that though.”

            “Just say we hope to see her one day again.”

            “That’s good,” she mumbled and jotted it down, then signed it.

            He did so, as well when she passed him the notebook.  Her perfect handwriting was so neat compared to his.

            “ Kenya …Jonathon…Come up and eat,” his mother yelled from the top of the stairs.

            They left the notebook and pen on the shag carpet and trudged up the steps.

            “Jon, do you think she’s here, watching over us?”

            “No, she’s in Heaven with Grandpa,” he mumbled with finality.

            After pretending to eat, they went back downstairs to collect their goodbye letter. Kenya stood over the notebook, face ashen and wide eyed.  She grasped out for him without tearing her eyes from the notebook on the floor.

            “What is it?’ he asked.  Gazing down at the notebook, he quickly backed away.  “Mom,” he muttered and cleared his throat.  “Mom, mom!” he yelled with force.

            The basement door creaked open. “What, Jonathon?” she called back.

            “Who came down here while we were eating?”

            “No one, we were all up here. Why?”

            “Never mind,” he whispered without tearing his eyes from the page.  Confirming what he already knew.

            Kenya sat with a plop and picked up the notebook where underneath their letter on the page was a single line in Grandma’s distinct cursive.

            I am here.