Escorting in Twilight

Elle Yomin knelt down to be eye-level with the boy; her long hair touching the floor. He drew his knees up to his chest. She felt a chill despite the warmth of the fireplace, certain that this child’s wandering was by Quinton’s guidance


“They’ll come for him,” Alle said, holding a pair of spectacles at his side. The boy pressed his back against the wall. “You’d think he’s never seen a bearded man before.”

She felt the cautious look he gave her without having to see his face. Her main concern was to alleviate the fear before her. Of course the child was scared, not knowing what was being said. Sadly, Elle knew that neither she nor her husband spoke the dialect. “Then we have to protect him,” she said.

“I didn’t say we wouldn’t, dear.” He spat into his hand and held it out before the boy.

Elle gestured for him to spit into Alle’s hand.  The boy didn’t move. She took her husband’s hand and spat into it. Alle’s expression made the boy smile. With a nod, she encouraged him to do the same.

He complied, watching as Alle mixed the spittle together. Long slender fingers wiped the juices on the earpieces of a pair of spectacles, the color turning a shade darker than before. Smiling, Mr. Yomin held the spectacles out, the frightened, yet curious boy putting them on.

Day“Good,” Mr. Yomin said, “now we don’t have to play guessing games.”

“We don’t,” the boy asked softly, a confused expression on his face now.

Elle took the boy’s hands in hers. “No, dear, we don’t.” She introduced herself and her husband. “And what is your name?”

“Atkinson,” he said. “Can you help me find my sister?”

Excerpt by T. Tommia Wright   Published with Permission
Find out more about T. Tommia Wright, Featured Author and her New Release: Reflections on Water – A collection of photos accompanied by original poems and favorite Bible verses

On the aisland

Autónomo at its most arduous

makes me consider islas.

A haven or retreat for the aislado

or solamente a solitary must?

Some islands desaparecidos dear distractions

aún, I sit alone, pondering la situación

solely myself, la es mía

is it self-creación or deprivación?

Without one to articulate

estoy como un soul separado

desperately trying for refuge unfound,

Stuck inside secretos construidos.

The unclear cosas that I brought

useless crumble, como rena por mis dedos.

determine my enclave, jail enclosed

mi aislamiento, more thoughts of my credos.

When haya terminado con mis pensativos

perhaps I would build un puente

partitions to place me in society

a resolution, no man es una isla, en la mente.

Source of my confusions

conocido con clear torment

distant no longer, porque

con ambos I am fluent.

by Rachel Barnard – Author, Poet & Dreamer  Posted with Permission Learn more about Rachel Barnard, Featured Author