Tree Dreams

Once upon a time there was a tree that thought it was a bird which thought it was a fox, who dreamed of being a fish that thought it was a frog, who imagined a day it would kiss a princess and become a man, a man who would look at the trees and yearn to be one of them.

Snowflakes

Snow flakes, fat and wet, drift gently, lazily down, joining their kin already at rest on trees and empty fields. There is no breeze, no movement from creature or man. The world is cold and still, hushed as if sleeping and waiting to wake. Each snowflake becomes a memory of movement, a promise that life continues and will return again.

Ocean

I can still smell the ocean sometimes. I can't see the faces of loved ones or remember the street where I lived. Indeed, most of what came before the desert is like a dream almost faded, thoughts and images just beyond remembering that you can't get back no matter how hard you try. I'm not even sure I remember my own name.

But I can still smell the ocean.

Beginning

Every story has a beginning, but what most people think of as the beginning is anything but. You can't even call it a middle. It's simply one more point of interest that sparks a rabbit trail focused on one individual or event, or series of events, that takes part in the actual story, which is much bigger, and much longer, than we sometimes realize. If you really want your story to begin at the start, then every story ever written should begin the same way:
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.