Poetically beautiful. I've got a serious crush on S.A. McAuley's writing.

8:06 pm 24 February 2014

This is What a Cold Lake Looks Like - S.A. McAuley

5 too-beautiful-for-words stars. Review posted February 24, 2014

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Four very emotional pages filled with memories, silence, grief and sadness that are so much more evocative and touching than any long-winded book. This was so poetically beautiful. It hurt. It took me apart layer by layer and yet the author's words did surround me like a comforting blanket. I guess it's time to confess that I've got a crush on S.A. McAuley…or let me rephrase that. I've got a serious crush on her writing.

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Looking at the flow of the water can offer solace. Water is a silent listener. You can confide in it; you can share your pain and, in a metaphorical sense, it can wash away your grief and regret.

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Water gives us a way to honor our mourning over the loss of something dear to us.
When we place our grief in Water's arms, she will hold it for us.
by Cait Johnson

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Tomorrow is never a promised day. Don't rush it. Breathe it in and savor it. Each and every day.

You can download the short story here:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/5iqpech5ff...

The added quotes below my review are spoiler-ish, so you've been warned.

Recommended read. You're still here? Go, go, go. Read it!

If you'd like to read the quotes then scroll down...

This lake is alive. Kicking. Breathing. Frothing. I envision it's as angry as I am. As resolved to its fate as I've become. But the only thing this lake has conceded is that to fight is to lose, so it rolls with the brutal slip of seasons. There is no whisper of argument from the waves. They take this beating and crest forward, down, on top of themselves. Over and over again. With a strength I try to breathe in. To believe in.

Your lingering presence erodes me. Heartbeat by heartbeat. Cell by aging cell. Washing away any sense of self I ever had. Intruding into a nothingness I've struggled to find the pieces to fill. A jar filled with stones, piled with pebbles, topped with sand, only to be left with the knowledge that water, with enough time and persistence, has the power to wash it all away.

Your name is on my lips. Frozen. A familiar cadence of syllables that once soothed me.

A name I can't speak. Can't think of.

Not on this shore, at our lake. Not on this day. When only a year ago, with a foreshadowing that is now ice in my veins, you stood next to me, in this jacket, your hand in mine, so warm, and stared out at this expanse and whispered in awe, "This is what a cold lake looks like."

Source: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/861244607?utm_medium=email&utm_source=rating

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Poetically beautiful. I've got a serious crush on S.A. McAuley's writing.