Author: Charlotte Hamrick

Charlotte Hamrick’s creative writing and photographs have been published in a number of literary journals and anthologies. Her debut prose chapbook, Offset Melodies, is included in Grieving Hope (ELJ Editions), a collection of five microchaps. She is Managing Editor for Reckon Review.
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The Waiting Room

Charlotte Hamrick

Twilight from closed curtains is soothing for sleep deprived eyes. Quiet whispers, families contemplate ventilators, sedated loved ones and impending doctor visits. Sweet cleaning lady empties the trash cans of crumpled coffee cups and “breakfast on the go” bags, swabs the wet floor of steamy bathrooms recently cleansing the tired bodies and flagging spirits of the ones who live in the waiting room. It’s 11:00, time for the second visit of the day and the ritual walk down the long hall to the SICU. Continue reading The Waiting Room

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Without

Charlotte Hamrick

Do the stars sparkle for me? Do they cast their light upon my wandering head as I lie gazing into a universe beyond my reach. Do they know that green eyes blue eyes brown eyes all look above and wish upon them in unison with one tremulous voice from many places that have no shine. Do the stars sing for me? Do they look down at where I lay my head and whisper a celestial lullabye to all lost children tethered to their despair with invisible chains that cannot be seen, cannot be cut , but is felt every minute … Continue reading Without

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Dark/Light

Charlotte Hamrick

You walked a golden path and I was in front beating the bushes for hidden dangers, eyes darting left and right, a force field of high alert with the tingle of anticipation stiffening my spine. Behind, your face radiated the beatific smile of the innocent ignorant, the birthright of The Golden, of the ones who know nothing of terror, spite or shame, but see only through eyes of sunlight. At the end, we were both too blind —- I by suspicion, you by trust —- to see the tip of a cloven hoof at the bottom of the door. Continue reading Dark/Light

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Wingless

Charlotte Hamrick

We watched for the return of the birds. The air around the house was silent and devoid of flutterings, a vacuum of tweets and whistles. What straggling flowers were left went hummingbirdless while twigs and string were just twigs and string with no hope of sheltering featherless offspring. It was strangely quiet, as though they were all sucked into a void somewhere and became dinosaurs again in another dimension. Kind of like our love, they were a wondrous memory for a time until slowly finding their way back home. Continue reading Wingless