Sublime

March 19, 2020 The Narrator

She was a child of the gods, sworn to defeat the monstrous of the world. And yet, she could not destroy this. Her eyes raked over the beast: the writhing tentacles, the spiraling horns, the patchy fur. Its head was blunt, its eyes burned with fear and fury. And yet, she could not destroy it. She watched as it tore through cities, as it decimated civilizations. The beauty in its destruction filled her with awe. It exuded a raw, primeval energy, something that she itched to tame, but wondered if she could. She feared it, and she loved it; she could not destroy it.

Inspired by a writing prompt from Writing Prompt Generator.

Detention and Disbelief

March 18, 2020 The Narrator

“I swear, there’s a ghost in Principal Adams’ office! That’s why I was in there! I don’t care about answer sheets.” Victoria stood as straight as a ruler, glaring at the principal and her teacher, Mr. Travers.

“Victoria, you were riffling through my desk drawers,” Principal Adams said, trying to keep her voice smooth and even.

“Yeah, because the ghost had to be hiding somewhere. Where else would I look?”

“Victoria,” Mr. Travers said with a sigh. “This is the third time we’ve found you somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, hunting for ‘ghosts.’” He didn’t actually do air quotes, but they were heavily implied.

Packaged Memories

March 17, 2020 The Narrator

Nate squinted at the back of the cookie box. “Have you ever read the label on these?”

“Nope,” Layla said cheerfully, pulling carrots from the shopping bag and putting them on the counter with an eye-roll.

“Seriously, you eat this? I can’t even pronounce half of the ingredients.” He sounded horrified.

“Yeah, well, you make your own green juice. No one’s perfect.”

Transparency is Key

March 16, 2020 The Narrator

“Blakely? Did it work? Are you still alive?” Reynolds blinked in the bright, empty lab. He heard a groan from somewhere in the room, but he couldn’t see anyone.

“Reynolds,” that same voice coughed, “when my head stops pounding, I am going to kill you.”

“Blakely!” he said, relieved. “I didn’t kill you!”

“If I’d thought you might,” she continued, “I wouldn’t have let you test your stupid machine. What the hell happened?”

Late Night Chat

March 15, 2020 The Narrator

“So, what are you hiding from?”

Hanna jumped. She looked up from her book, and into the gently smiling face of the bartender. The cute bartender, a traitorous voice said in the back of her mind, but she ignored it.

“Excuse me?”

His smile grew. “You’re in a dive bar, on a Tuesday night, nursing a rum and Coke and reading a book. You gotta be hiding from something.”

Eternal Footsteps

March 14, 2020 The Narrator

Inspired by Famine, Custom House Quay by Rowan Gillespie in Dublin, Ireland.

—

We walk.

Our limbs quiver,
Our heads hang low,
Our hearts thud in our chests.

We walk.

We leave behind our homes.
We leave behind our land and our dreams.
We leave behind our weak and our dead.

We walk.

We walk in the morning, with the garbage and the businessmen.
We walk in the afternoon, with the families and the tourists.
We walk in the evening, with the revelers and the Liffey.

We walk.

We walk past the Dubliners. Do they see us?
We walk past the foreigners. Do they see us?
We walk past the living. Do they see us?

Do you see us?

Daily Log

March 13, 2020 The Narrator

Day 67

I have been stuck on this island by myself for over two months. And honestly, it’s been great. There is an abundance of food, the weather is warm but not too hot, there is clear, fresh water to drink, and I haven’t seen another person in weeks. It’s been so quiet. So relaxing. There is a small part of me that misses the rest of the world, but then I remember all the shit going on out there. Here, I am blissfully unaware. Here, I can feel the soothing breeze, bask in the sunlight, trace the clouds through the lush foliage. Here, I can be free.

Wait, is that a boat? Coming this way? Damn it.

Echoes

March 12, 2020 The Narrator

Sometimes the echoes
Are all that I have. The words
Can be hard to hear.

Missing Words

March 11, 2020 The Narrator

Continuation of Choice Words.

Ms. Millward was already precariously balanced on a chair when the charm above the front door jingled merrily. She grasped at the bookshelf beside her, swaying slightly. Now, who could that be, at this time of night? She thought, glancing up at the stubborn ink spot on the ceiling. It would have to wait, she supposed.

Carefully, she climbed down. She felt no rush. This library had a lot of tricks up its sleeves – or between its shelves, she mused – and she wasn’t worried. That is, until she remembered that she had closed the library early that day, and was fairly sure she had locked the door.

“Why,” she muttered to herself, picking up her pace as she moved through the quiet library, “do these things always happen in threes?”

Untitled 4

March 10, 2020 The Narrator

The light is changing,
the sky a different blue.
I sense spring coming.

I write of words and
weather, for they surround me,
and make up my world.

And I write to shield
myself, my soul, from feeling
too much, too deeply.

To write poems of
my pain and joy, of my hopes,
is too much to bear.

Is this cowardice,
to hide from the world, instead
of living in it?

Of this I know true:
there are changes in the air.
Maybe for me, too.

Author: The Narrator