Monday Microburst: Circle of Light
Magical. Mystical. Meaningful. Monday Microburst
Every week, I’ll share a tiny tale from Plymbury—the coastal New England town where all my stories live. These moments are short enough to read over morning coffee or tea, yet just long enough to leave a trace of magic in your day. I hope they become a small ritual you look forward to each Monday.
Design by Kendra Vaughan
Circle of Light
Terryn almost walked past the Plymbury Pumpkin Patch that morning, hurrying to get home before the rain came. But one small, lopsided gourd caught her eye—its orange half melted into green, as though it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. She bent down, brushing away a few damp leaves.
“You’re a funny one,” she whispered, smiling despite herself.
Her aunt used to promise that the imperfect pumpkins were the ones that made the best jack-o’-lanterns, shining their light for everyone to see. But this had been a season of broken promises—mostly the kind she’d made to herself about where she’d be in life by now.
Still, Terryn took it home and set the gourd on her porch beside a lantern, and tried to forget about it—until the next morning, when the sunlight caught it just right, and she noticed a soft glow pulsing beneath its skin, like a heartbeat caught in amber.
That evening, she carved it—not into a grin or a grimace, but a single circle, smooth and unbroken. A symbol, she decided, for all the things she could still count on: the tide, the seasons, the morning light.
When Terryn lit the candle inside, the glow steadied, warm and golden, spilling out onto the porch like a promise—and nature, she knew, always kept its promises.
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