Story on a Wall

Before she knew it, the wall had come to an end, and so had her story. She dropped the pen in her hand to the blank ground to lay with its comrades, and looked to her left. In that direction, the wall stretched on in the world of flat white, and on it was the drawn out story that she never thought she had the skill to make. She looked down at her hands, covered in ink and weary from the scribbling she had been doing for what seemed like forever. She took a step back and looked at what she had created. She began to laugh. Laugh at herself, for ever doubting what those stained hands could do. And as she laughed, the colors on the wall grew brighter, until that was all she cared about, and all she could see. 

 

Fallen Angel

 I fell. And as I fell, the darkness swallowed me up. My battered wings wouldn’t move. I found that out fast. I closed my eyes and waited for it all to stop. And then it did. But not the way I thought it would. When I opened my eyes, they were there. They were crying. The tears streamed down their face and came to rest on mine. Their arms were under me, keeping me from falling further. And flaring out behind them were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Huge wings of golden silver light, shining brighter than a star in the darkness and chasing it away. They had grown wings. The human had grown wings. Beautiful wings of light, and all to save one fallen angel. 

Death's Handshake

I feel him now. Watching me. On and off, for years, I knew he’d been following. Always just one step behind. I couldn’t slip up, had to keep moving forward. I became so tired... I couldn’t keep it up anymore. Now, here I stand in this dark place of nothingness. And I know that when I turn around, he’ll be there. “Hey kid, haven’t you had enough of this yet?” His voice is strong and soft at the same time, he doesn’t sound much older than twenty. Funny, I had done everything I could to keep from hearing it, that voice, and yet I wanted to go to it so badly. “You can’t keep running from me. Turn around, and we can go.” My head down, I turn. I can see the edge of his black cloak. He offers me a hand, and I look up as I accept it. I smile at him, and he smiles back. As I begin to fade I think, wait till I tell everyone I looked Death in the face without crying.

Standing on a Storm

 A white hot thread of lighting snaked below him, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the heavens. The cloud he lay on was the only one that wasn’t ink black. It floated above the swirling mass below, dark clouds looking like something brewing in a witch’s pot. Another thread of light, and another, and another, each followed by a sound loud enough to send the Sun into hiding. But he just lay there, watching, entranced by the flashes and explosions going on beneath him. And before he knew it, the cloud he was laying on had become dark too. It joined the witch’s brew, and he fell. Down, down, down, through the storm he had been entranced by. And he felt more at peace than he ever had before, and began to fade away. 

Burning Alive

 I had turned my life into a library. The library was full of books; all the places that I’d seen, things that I’d done, thoughts that I’d had. All it had taken was one spark. One small spark set by some spiteful person, and it was all in flames. I sat in the middle of the inferno, the ashes of my life swirling around me, images moving on the blackening pages. Laughing, singing, crying, all burned just as fast, and just as bright. The shelves started to fall, sending up flowers of embers where they hit the ground. There I stayed, and watched my life burn around me. I didn’t shed any tears. It wouldn’t have made any difference if I had. A small amount of water like that can’t put out a burning soul.

In the Comfort of Darkness

 Here I sit, in a place that light has never been before. The darkness is thick and warm, wrapping me in a blanket and protecting me from all harm. In this blackness, I see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. My mind is blank, the thoughts that haunt me for once are not present, and it is the greatest relief I think I have ever felt. I close my eyes and sink into the shielding blanket; it begins to sing to me. The song is quiet, but it makes me feel so calm that I don’t ever want to leave. The darkness I am in is absolute, and perfect, but the spark of life I carry is too bright, and when from my chest I see its soft glow, I sigh, for I have tainted the darkness with my greedy, destructive light. 

Boxed Memory

 On the wood floor in the center of the darkened room, a carved box sits and glows softly. I walk to it and kneel. There is a lock on the box, it’s engravings equal to those of the box it keeps shut, the small keyhole almost invisible. I take the key that hangs on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, and insert it into the lock. It clicks when I turn it, and I open the lid. Inside is a small orb of color and light. A memory that I cherish more than anything; it flashes across the glowing ball. I gently hold it in my hands, smiling as I watch the memory. When it is done, I place it in the box once more and relock it, tucking the key into my shirt when I finish. I sigh, for while I know this memory will fade if I don’t look after it, I can tell it becomes more worn every time I hold it in my hands.

Words I Couldn’t Say

 So many things buzzing in the back of my brain. Dying to get out, but never quite making it. The pressure in my head builds, until it’s almost painful. I need to write, to speak, anything to let these words out of my mind and into the tangible universe. Here I sit, rocking back and forth, never quite able to put these thoughts into a sentence. Then all of a sudden, the pressure is gone. I look up to the night sky I sit under, and there are all my words. Shining just as brightly as the stars and snaking their way through the blackness of the sky. Stories are told, and things I had thought to leave unsaid said. At that moment, a tear rolls down my cheek, because until the weight those words put in my mind was lifted, I never realised how heavy they truly were.

A Blank Page

 There is beauty in a blank page. Something untainted by thought. A world of possibilities humanity hasn’t even thought of yet. It calls out for a purpose, a story. It wishes to mean something, to be more than just a blank page. In that way, I suppose we are like that page. Calling out for someone to notice us and our untold story. There are a few who can hear it calling. The writers of the world whose purpose is to listen for the call of the blank page, and to answer it. Maybe that makes writers true romantics. For hearing someone else’s story- Isn’t that what we call love?

Poisonous

 Sometimes, I feel as though I’m poisonous, slowly killing all the people I care about. Maybe I need to go away, to keep them safe. No one can understand the feeling; the feeling of being perfectly fine while watching your friends and loved ones slowly die around you. Knowing it’s all your fault… Maybe I should leave, and not come back for a long while. Maybe not ever. Even if I die alone, at least the others won’t die. This poison inside of me, I won’t let it take another victim. And this is why I write. To say goodbye. For there is no coming back for one who is poisoned.

Butterflies

 In a moonlit clearing, in a jade forest, I once saw a bush as white as freshly fallen snow. It glowed brightly in the light cast by the full moon, and blessed the air with the sweet scent of apples and honey. Enchanted by its magic, I walked to it. The blossoms looked so soft, I shyly reached out a hand to touch a shining petal. When my finger brushed it, the bush exploded into a thousand white butterflies, all of them rising into the air at once in a beautiful cloud of gossamer wings. When the last of the ghostly insects had faded away into the night, I looked back at where the bush was, and all that remained were dead, skeletal branches.

Red

 All around me swirls an angry cloud of red, the emotions of some being brought to life. It’s hot, and it stings a little, but I can’t help but see it as beautiful. Streaks of gold and orange rip through the red in places, making it look like a wall of fire. I sit there, in the eye of the storm, and stare. Over time, the heat lessens, and so does the pain. The strings of red energy that make up the cloud slow down, and slacken. For just a second, I can see a spot of blue through the strings of red. And I realise, that maybe being angry, is just another way of being sad.

Goodbye

 So you couldn’t even say goodbye? I get it. There’s no going back from “Goodbye”. Goodbye hurts. What hurts more is seeing a person I thought was a friend walk by, only to have my bright hello met with half a “hey” and a strained smile. What hurts more is seeing someone you care about walk next to you for hours without acknowledging you’re there. What hurts more is seeing that person talk to others the same way they used to talk to you. Thanks to you, I’ve found that the lack of hello hurts more than the presence of goodbye. So goodbye friend.

Black Ink

 Here I stand in front of a wall of black ink. It drips down to cover its own cracks, and seal out whatever might have been on the other side. I sigh, and drop the pen in my hand - it’s work finally done. I sit in the safety of the wall I have drawn, and hope that the ink works better than the lead I used before. I won’t make that mistake again. I wall drawn in lead is too easily erased. I lay behind my wall and hope to hear people calling from the other side, asking to be let in. Only one call comes. It’s the only person I didn’t want to hear. I take up my pen once more and thicken my wall until I can’t hear their voice. Only when it’s too late do I realize that now I won’t be able to hear anyone else.  

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.08.2019

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