There was a riot in my heart.
It needed to be heard.
Everly Brighton's expected to die before her twenty-first birthday, at the hands of a rare medical condition. Under the watchful eye of her father more is being stolen from her than years. Everly longs for connection and freedom she has never been allowed due to her dad's controlling routine. Time ticking away she begins to defy his rules and make up her own.
One star-crossed meeting grants Everly her greatest desire when she befriends Callum Trovatto, a grief-stricken med student needful of his own blissful upswing in the wake of his mother's death.
When Everly becomes the center of Callum’s class assignment, their fate is tested, as they try to awaken their true selves with the infinite promise of friendship, renewal of faith, and an unexpected love that shakes the charade forever.
Infinite Dolls is a story of grief, faith, and how the power of deep-rooted love encourages living in the preciousness of Now.
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| Infinite Dolls Emalynne Wilder Womens Fiction / NA ContemporaryPub date: (Sunday) 6.7.15 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00YY56FP6 Get your copy! |
Callum Trovatto : I Won't Say I Loved Her
Of all the parts of me that fell in love with her, my memory won in the end.
It loved her when I was only a grain of sand being scrawled into a map of possibility. Before I knew my own name or the sound of my mother’s voice, my memory locked the most beautiful laughter between heartbeats and fate.
Years after her Soft Goodbye, my memory is still a begging child constantly tugging for a revival.
And while the image of her remains evergreen within my mind; the world has grown quieter without her and, in a way, so have I. When someone you love dies that’s exactly what happens, and with a resilient memory such as mine, I’m only left with a double-edged choice—remember to keep her memory alive inside of me, or forget and be forever restless with this void. Both have consequences that I may suffer in defeat.
So foolishly I spent years of my youth thinking I had been alone . . . but the truth is . . . I never knew what alone was until she died.
Sure, there were the years I spent sleeping alone in a bunk in-between calls and emergencies—the endless hours of studying while others slept, and socialized. And of course all those dark holes in the “ever after” when I couldn’t save a life, when learning from books wasn’t enough, and I was reduced to a bump on the curb outside of the emergency entrance bay.
But that kind of loneliness was always repaired with morning rays and a head of blonde hair tucked under my chin. That kind of loneliness never honed the power to unravel my inner workings, tie an invisible cord around my ribcage and anchor me to an infinite hope.
This kind of alone is far different. This kind of alone has taught me I was once a cosmic kid fighting for falling skies, burned out stars, and trails of dust. There is so little magic without her. There is so little fight within me.
But still, my heart beats. It dreams. It wonders. And most dangerous of all, it hopes, because despite its smallness, this hope is still a great something.
The softness I once knew under my fingertips as I traced her shoulder, cheek, full lips . . . it now lives on as wonderment-filled eyes and innocent questions. A small hand reaching for adventure appoints me the leader and top-troublemaker.
And in this new role of alone, I must decide how to let our child live. I must decide how to not let her memory die.
I won’t say I loved her because that’s too short-lived.
I’ll just keep counting the number of ways.
I’ll just keep tallying the moments we lived as a neon contrast to the everyday black and white.
I’ll just keep counting the number of ways.
I’ll just keep tallying the moments we lived as a neon contrast to the everyday black and white.
And I’ll never regret my memories numbered 1 or 708 no matter how greatly they suffer my memory. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that I have a vote in the happenings of my life . . . and I have chosen to live.
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