The Penny’s Whisper

The Penny’s Whisper

In a bustling city, where hurried footsteps echoed against concrete, there lay a single penny—a forgotten relic of small value. It rested near a busy crosswalk, unnoticed by the throngs of people rushing to catch trains, meetings, and dreams.

The penny had seen better days. Its copper surface bore scratches and tarnish, and its edges were worn smooth by countless hands. Yet, despite its humble appearance, the penny held a secret—a whisper from the universe.

One day, a weary man named Henry stumbled upon the penny. His life had become a blur of deadlines and obligations. He barely noticed the world around him, lost in the chaos of existence. But that day, as he bent down to tie his shoelaces, he glimpsed the penny.

He picked it up, examining it with mild curiosity. “Just a penny,” he thought, about to toss it aside. But then, something changed. The penny seemed to speak—a soft, ethereal voice that echoed in his mind.

“Listen,” it said. “I am more than metal and mint. I carry wishes, memories, and hope. Every hand that touched me left a trace—a moment of connection. I’ve been dropped by children buying candy, by lovers making wishes in fountains, and by old souls tossing me into wells.”

Henry frowned. Was he losing his mind? But the penny continued:

“I’ve been a token of luck, a reminder of abundance, and a symbol of trust. People have picked me up, smiled, and whispered their dreams. And now, I’m here for you.”

Henry chuckled. “A talking penny,” he mumbled. “What do you want?”

“Not much,” the penny replied. “Just this: slow down. Look around. Life isn’t just about racing forward; it’s about noticing the small things—the dew on a leaf, the laughter of a child, the warmth of a stranger’s smile. I’ve witnessed countless stories, and now I invite you to be part of them.”

Henry stood there, the penny cradled in his palm. He felt a shift—an awakening. The city noise faded, replaced by birdsong and distant laughter. He noticed the graffiti on the nearby wall—the vibrant colors, the hidden messages. He saw faces—the tired woman selling flowers, the old man feeding pigeons.

From that day on, Henry carried the penny in his pocket. Whenever life overwhelmed him, he’d touch it, remembering the whisper. He slowed down, savored sunsets, and shared kindness. And in those moments, he felt connected—to the world, to strangers, and to the universe itself.

The penny remained silent, content. It had fulfilled its purpose—to remind one soul that even a lone coin on the ground could hold magic.

And so, the city continued its dance, but Henry danced too—a waltz of awareness, gratitude, and wonder—all sparked by a whisper from a forgotten penny.


May you find your own whispers in unexpected places.

The Guardian of the Tides

The Guardian of the Tides

Photograph by Tyrone Scott Hudson

In the heart of Metlakatla, where the land meets the sea, there stood an ancient breakwater. Its timeworn stones, smoothed by centuries of waves, held steadfast against the relentless tide. To the villagers, it was more than just a barrier—it was a silent sentinel, a guardian of their harbor.

Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of gold and crimson across the water, the breakwater came alive. Its moss-covered surface glowed, as if infused with the fading light. Children gathered on its edges, their laughter echoing against the rugged rocks.

Old Chief Kwanook watched from his cabin nearby. His weathered face bore the lines of countless seasons, and his eyes held the wisdom of generations. He knew the secrets whispered by the breakwater—the stories of lost ships, of brave fishermen who never returned, and of love found and lost.

One stormy night, when the waves crashed against the shore like angry giants, Chief Kwanook ventured out to the breakwater. He placed his hand on its rough surface, feeling the pulse of the sea. “Tell me,” he whispered, “what memories do you hold?”

And the breakwater answered.

It spoke of a young couple—a Tsimshian girl named Aiyana and a fisherman named Kael. Their love blossomed like wildflowers in spring. They met by the breakwater, their fingers entwined as they watched the sunsets. But fate can be cruel, and Kael’s boat was lost during a fierce storm. Aiyana waited, her heart aching, until the breakwater revealed his fate—a piece of driftwood, worn and splintered.

Years passed, and Aiyana became an elder, her hair silver as moonlight. She would sit on the breakwater, her eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for Kael’s spirit to return. The villagers called her the “Keeper of Memories,” for she shared stories of love, loss, and resilience with anyone who listened.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, Aiyana felt a warmth against her cheek. She turned to see a figure—a man with eyes like the sea. Kael stood before her, his form translucent, yet solid. “Aiyana,” he whispered, “I’ve waited for you.”

Their reunion was bittersweet. Kael had become part of the breakwater, his essence woven into its stones. Aiyana held him, tears streaming down her face. “Why did you wait so long?” she asked.

Kael smiled. “Time is different here. Our love transcends the years.”

And so, they stood together—the Keeper of Memories and the spirit of a fisherman—watching the sunset. As the last rays painted the sky, they merged into the breakwater, becoming one with its ancient soul.

Photograph by Tyrone Scott Hudson

To this day, if you visit Metlakatla at sunset, you’ll feel their presence. The breakwater still glows, and if you listen closely, you might hear their laughter, carried by the wind.

And so, the guardian of the tides continues its silent vigil, sharing stories of love and loss, reminding us that even in the face of eternity, love endures.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑