Jessica Barratt

Writer & Photographer | Digital Portfolio

Recent Stories

  • Tearing Holes in the Tapestry

    Tearing Holes in the Tapestry

    Some lives are meant only to tear holes in the tapestry.

    Yet someone once told me that the world is also full of menders, gently pulling broken threads back into place.

    And though there are times when I can only see the holes, there are others times when I can see them: The Menders, quietly tying together broken string.

    Like the bent man with his stick and his dog, who walks along the highway from his house every morning. He doesn’t know I see him there, passing time in the way he’s always passed time. He doesn’t know that I look for him there, as a marker that some things stay the same. Yet always, he is there, and he mends as he walks.

    Or the woman whose smile knows suffering. Who makes herself coffee quietly in her kitchen; who reads a book and still laughs, even though nothing can change the past. Her tears mend. Her loneliness mends. For with it she reaches out her arms and takes us all in.

    There are others, too. Who don’t even know they’re doing it. You’re doing it and you don’t even know, maybe. Who says you’re not a mender, after all? Even if all you’ve done is make holes; even if you can’t feel yourself attached by a single thread. It’s always there: your mending.

    In the rock art you left on the beach for someone else to see.

    In the gas you lent to your neighbour when the power went out.

    In the dog you pet yesterday as you passed.

    Stitching up the seams between your life and mine because you know (as I know) that holes can always be patched.

    For there has never been a lack of thread.

    Want another ‘quick read’ by this author? Click here.

  • Sometimes I Disappear

    Sometimes I Disappear

    I’ll watch a bird, and a week goes by. I’ll bask in the sun and find a month already gone.

    But I’ve always been here; it’s time that’s tricky. It’s time that spins past, so fast I can’t see. It’s time that moves, while I’m standing still. Then I look to my parents’ faces. I look in the mirror. And I see time has already gotten us, right there, under the eyes.

    My friends are my time-keepers, too. They tell me when time’s passed. They invite me inside of the clock. And it’s good to be there, where there are people and potlucks.

    But I do not live inside of the clock. There are no arrows marking the lines, telling me which way to go, how long it’ll take me to get there. I do not count the numbers of my days down to the second. I barely look at the clock.

    Instead I watch a bird and a week goes by. I’m 80, I’m 20, I’m seven again. I remember, I live, I imagine. Sometimes, I disappear all together and time forgets me completely. I forget, too. I float. I breathe. There is no rush to be anywhere.

    Because I’m always right where I am.

    Wish you could write more and stop scrolling? Read my latest motivational article for phone-addicted writers here.

  • The Boy in the Water

    The Boy in the Water

    A man stands at the water, the boy in his reflection lapping waves at his feet.

    But the man does not look down. No, he looks away to the horizon where the sun sends up its last rays of light and his head fills with all those passions that fill men. Of sailing ocean seas. Of topping the highest clouds. Of scaling the gold mountains that feed into the lake.

    Yet he does not look behind him, at the waiting eyes in the trees.

    The green and red eyes that only the boy can see.

    And he, looking far away to the horizon, wonders why he still feels afraid. Why he stands alone. Why no one else is on the beach waiting as the day turns to night.

    A growl filters through the thicket. A hound the man once called brother bares its teeth, its hackles raised. But the man does not hear the warning above the waves in the distance. And the boy in the water has no voice to warn him.

    The first star appears.

    A shiver runs down the man’s spine.

    The boy in the water disappears.

    And a long-clawed paw can be seen, stepping out of the forest toward the shore.

    If you like the short expression above, try reading another here!

    Cover Photo By Jessica Barratt

  • Soup’s On

    Soup’s On

    We tell our truest stories when soup’s on. When the bay leaves do their thing (whatever it is), we reach into our deepest pockets and empty them all the way out.

    We’ve had enough time to stew, and so has the soup.

    It’s the warmth of it all, probably. And the waiting, because the longer it sits, the better it gets.

    The longer we sit, the better we get.

    Even better tomorrow, I bet.

    So as the pot empties, our souls do. As our thoughts empty, our bowls do. And soon the words aren’t important on their own anymore; it’s all of them together, spicing the mix.

    Carrots, celery, onions, and everything else left from the fridge.

    If you like this ‘short’ expression, read yesterday’s here!

    Post Feature Image by: Jessica Barratt

  • Changing the Furniture Around

    Changing the Furniture Around

    I’m sitting on a side table that’s usually meant for the alarm clock. Incense smoke drifts lazily to the ceiling, where I bet it lives for a while and I just don’t see it. My coffee is cold, but it always is after I’ve found it again.

    The piles keep moving from one place to the next as I mull over what goes where, what needs a sweep, what I can do to change, change, change; how I can make change. The sun is streaming in through the window, and someone’s spraying for ants outside, but I’m inside like an ant, pushing my dirt around this way and that, beside other ants in other homes pushing their dirt this way and that.

    Yes. The chair will go there, and it will make me feel better. Yes, the lamp can sit there, and I will feel better. Help me move this bed, this table, this box, and maybe we’ll both feel better.

    And as we sit on the chairs that are chairs again, at the table that is a table again, all our piles put nice, we do feel better. Change makes change. A robin sings out the window. The grass is greener on the other side. Someone refills my coffee. The steam drifts up to live with the incense and I am just grateful to have a place called home.

    If you need help with your next creative writing project, book a workshop session here.

    Feature Image by Jessica Barratt.