I looked at the peeling paint on my ceiling, a faded mural of flowers mom had done when I was little. I pressed my head into her chest so I could hear her heartbeat, and tried to imagine who she could have been.
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It was a seductive fragrance that gently wrapped me in its spell.
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Since I was little, I had earned the reputation of being a child with a big imagination.
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The day, far buried in the past, which started - and ended - everything. They remember the pain that followed in the days and years afterward, the pain that still rolls through on the first day of spring and cold winter mornings and September nights spent on park benches.
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A Woman writes on Paper. That Paper rests on a Board. She writes a Poem.
In her inscription, she articulates her hatred for the Moon.
Soon the stage would fill, Kathleen thought, soon the lights would change and with this change of light the tables would turn. The watchers would be plunged into silent darkness, taciturn anonymity, and the authoritative, organised, silencing cacophony of the opening overture would reign in the hall.
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I need to be alone. I need to be on my own with my ghosts. I can feel them around me now, shifting among the streetlights, dancing across the faces of deserted windows. I can hear them whispering too, confirming half-truths that I am desperate not to believe.
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Though there is a funny thing about a life as quiet as this. You realize that the silence has its own little sounds that it keeps to itself, but is willing to share with those who listen. Like a sound such as you.
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“Arthur wanted to say he’d miss sunrise runs and playing her favourite songs on the piano. The way her nose crinkled when he offered her peanut butter, and the sound she made when he beat her at tennis for the first time. The crack on her front tooth.”
Read More![ASD or [A Simple Decision]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5c609d0f77b903f8f5ddeef6/1713191516043-V2ZTHCVYUZRVHIJJE8X1/WhatsApp+Image+2024-03-31+at+02.23.14_813d1640.jpg)
TW: Blood, Death
My first order of business is to make a sandwich. After asking Freddy what he wants for lunch, I make my way to the kitchen with a new goal in mind. It is my preferred activity to fixing the radiator, the first of two tasks my parents entrusted me with earlier today. I was made aware of a screw that was bulging out of the radiator, which could cut the skin or catch the clothes of whoever passed it, but that isn’t my priority.
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This is it. The sailors gather around you, some jealous, some admiring, some fearful. Only a few have gone down in the bathysphere, but never to the depths you’re going. You can only hope the bathysphere is as infallible against the ocean as it is on blueprints. The captain salutes you and reminds you of your orders. When you hit 500 fathoms, you’re to observe any geological abnormalities as predicted from the unusual currents that emanate here.
Some expect you to give a final speech before you descend. Perhaps a thanks to the crew or a witty remark. Any final wishes if something goes wrong. A last chance to repent your sins. You offer nothing. Instead, you climb into the bathysphere, giving the crew a thumbs-up through the observation window. The hatch locks. You ready yourself as you’re hoisted above the ocean, deep and murky, and are dropped in.
Your breathing increases as choppy waves slosh against, and eventually over, the bathysphere. You feel like an acorn, dangling on a string, waiting to be cracked.
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