Rhese Voisard
I am a first-year Creative Writing & Entrepreneurship student at Miami University who fell in love with storytelling from a very young age in the form of books, songs, and films. My first poems I wrote as a child and my love for the written word has grown with me through the years. I am very passionate about the art of storytelling in all of its forms and appreciate the impact this has on people’s lives. You can view some of my other work in Soft Quarterly, and the Luna Collective, while I am continuously working on new projects.
The Hues of Homesickness
A red velvet sky spilled into the windows and onto the wooden floorboards. The cabin filled with a strange crimson glow— almost as if the world was on fire.
Laurel stirred a steaming pot of soup, the red light scattered across her face. The oven dinged and she pulled out a crusty loaf of sourdough. Placing the pieces into a woven basket, she carried them over to the set table. She ladled herself a bowl and brought it over, a trail of steam accompanying her stride. The young woman curled her stocking-covered feet up to her chest and dipped a piece of bread into the soup.
She took her time eating the meal. Slow bites of bread followed by spoonfuls of vegetables and broth. The grandfather clock ticked from its place in the living room. Laurel’s eyes stayed on the sky engulfed in flames.
The moment she placed her spoon into the empty ceramic bowl, the front door swung open. The chomp of work boots was followed by the click of heels. Laurel doesn’t turn around as she is used to the sudden arrival at this hour.
There is a clammer of bowls and clinking of silverware before a tall man and a slender woman are seated across from their daughter. They speak of the nothingness that decorated their day, while asking Laurel what had become of hers. She responded in dead-end sentences, eyes fixed on the sea of trees surrounding them. She smiled and nodded at remarks of how “oh so beautiful the view is.”
After a while of clinking spoons and tearing of bread, the parents lifted themselves from their seats. Laurel politely declined the mention of dessert but insisted on retreating to her room. She was “oh so tired” after a day filled with festivities. That is if you count chopping vegetables and staring blankly at the computer screen “festivities.”
She closed her bedroom door and slipped into her silk nightgown. It’s the maroon one her grandmother had given her. The wine-colored fabric delicately framed her shoulders and the lace neckline tickled her collarbone. She heard the TV switch on from the living room and swiftly slipped out her first-story window.
She felt the cool touch of grass beneath her feet as she ran into the crushed violet dusk. When she reached the lake, her breath hitched at the way the full moon sparkled across the water’s surface.
Laurel carefully stepped over the soft sand and submerged her body in the frigid waters. She didn’t even flinch as she moved to a position where she floated on her back, eyes fixed on the sangria-colored sky dotted with stars.
She missed the ever-present hum of her home back in the city. The longing she had to return there made her heart hurt fiercely. Out here, she felt nothing but the stillness of the water in her ears and the chilled numbness in her bones. Perhaps to feel nothing is better than to feel everything.