A Place That Never ForgetsA Place That Never Forgets This place is to me a lonely ocean. Its fields are like open waters, tall grass like waves on a breeze, white-capped with litter washing on the shore of the stable floor. Its boards are rot with neglect and creak with tired sighs. Once a chorus of sounds, the nicker and whinny of horses, the baying of goats, the cluck of chickens; now it rings with silence, it hurts my ears, that nothing can be heard there. The tack room door hangs from it's hinge, painting the face of merciless time. Through the door, an empty room filled only with cobwebs and dark shadows. Above, a fan blade hangs bent, disrupting the symmetry o
A Knock at the Door A Knock at the Door The floorboard gave a painful whine as I made my way down the stairs. The railing clattered loosely on one end, where the nails were falling out. The carpet was damp in spots, like it always seemed to be, though I barely noticed. I had lived there for years, and my room was on the second floor. I traveled these steps often. It wasn't an open stairway, there was a wall closing it on either side. Like a narrow hallway that happened to go upward. At the bottom they would meet the kitchen, and as I made my way off the last step, I met the kitchen as well. I had been in my room by myself. My brother was in his
Silly ThoughtsI had a silly thought once.I was running. Stealing a frantic glance behind me I saw his silhouette standing motionless. I wove through my surroundings, everything becoming a river of color streaming past, my adrenaline granting me a temporary feat of inhuman speed, as we only experience in fleeing for our lives. I stopped, allowing the trees to drown me in their shadow, hoping it would suffice to wash my scent from the trail, that is, to hide me from that maniac.I studied the ground as the moon emerged from behind a cloud, ready to mingle with the stars and turn an ear to the wolf. I could admire a statue in that moment; because it was so
Clever LiesOur futureLives,Hang onA thread.Precariously Perched On His fingers, The Man.While he weaves His wicked web We find we are The fly.And weLament,The deathOf choice.Hmm, waitNo..This Is allA clever Lie.
Sta.sh
