One thousand days of walking, that’s what the story told. One thousand days from the west coast, where I was currently residing, to the east coast where I’d been sent to gather the shells. Yellow tourmaline shells, themselves the subject of many myths.
But something was amiss. I had counted the days. Two hundred and thirty-seven. Yet here I was at the east coast, the sun rising and blinding my eyes. And there, unless I was mistaken, was a yellow tourmaline shell – though I hadn’t realised they grew high upon stalks.
Not a shell, but an evening primrose
crispina kemp 
Beautiful
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Thank you 😊
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You’re most welcome
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😊😊😊
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Love the whimsy 😊
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I think it’s becoming my *trade* mark 😊
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You have a real knack for building worlds
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Thank you. It’s the writer in me! 😊😊😊
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I so love this, Crispina.
(Still searching for my matchy-matchy!)
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❤️❤️❤️
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And now… I’m thinking of merging your TWO weeks in a row CCC with. It’s been simmering!
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Go for it! Several merge several prompts
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I have done it a time or thrice 😉
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Yes, you have. And sometimes that’s appreciated by us readers (no, this comment isn’t aimed at you) when otherwise we have so much to read 🙂
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Glad to know that 🙂
And… tell me about it!
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A feel of reminiscing in this write, Crispina.
Lovely, Isadora 😎
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Perhaps. Most of the things I write do come from my experiences in some way (I’m not always aware of it though)
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I believe an unconcious word or two can flicker into our writing. Perhaps, a remembrance we don’t even remember but has been hidden somewhere. 😍
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Yes, entirely yes
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