All Posts By: Byron McCoy

               Some days, what she needed most was a feel—a something more than bland malaise of passive living through a day.                Last January sky rose to stay of gray from day before, cool but not cold, damp without rain or snow’s fall, it was a dreariness that made the cool seem colder than it […]

               Sky remained in its overcast and his melancholy returned.  He told himself he didn’t know why, but maybe he lied.  It was a sadness of doubt, a questioning of hope, when one believes, then fears—perhaps I’m wrong.  To give in hope and act in faith—to share and make one’s art—these are what one controls.  […]

               Sky was gray and a soft mist fell, world warmed and changing light-dream snow to despond of mist that rose at times to drizzle.                Inside, at island, he looked to book beside.  It had a cover of bright and bursting colors.  He read the title, and then small sub beneath, Big Magic: Creative […]

               “…the older I get, the less impressed I become with originality.  These days, I’m far more moved by authenticity.  Attempts at originality can often feel forced and precious, but authenticity has quiet resonance that never fails to stir me.                            Just say what you want to say, then, and say it with all your […]

               He was tired.  He was drained.  It’d been a day.                She saw it in his eyes.  She held her book, but it was him she read, the way they always seemed to do.                “I’m tired,” he spoke.  “I’m peopled out; not from everyone—not you—but there’s no one else I want to see.” […]

               She waited for him in love open and free, smile at the sound of his steps in rise to room, finding of eyes to wait-meeting of hers, the way they grew and glowed in find of her there, intention’s telling in her wait.                She loved that it did not need to be heavy, […]

               Still in the way of new-love vigor, spirit and season of seeming never-end found, restored, and lived anew in miracle of middle-age, spirit yearned again.                Morning way in lead to desire of noon, hearts strongly drawn again; sweep of her body, lift of her ass, take of strong and fast; deep heat-rose hue […]

               She held him stronger, bracing full in the force, stomach flexed and forward curled as she stayed wide, breathing in full-drain empty through speed and the strengthening, rose of her skin in force and friction and energy’s meet; open of her lips, soft sound in her breath; heat of the sun on back; dizzied […]