Am I to believe all these circumstances? Have I been bred to be so naïve?
Sometimes it feels like platforms are falling into the path of my steps, and I get to where I’m supposed to be. This calculated fate designed for destiny; premeditated not by me. Do they think that I don’t see just because I’ve always been here- that my sheltering would leave me transfixed?
To hear all my life the beauty of the painted skies, but when I finally reached out for them, my knuckles resounded a knock!
I beseech you the truth. Lies forevermore, nevermore.
A hand outstretched, in hopes of partnership to rebuild the lost: from a dissed utopia to a dystopia. Annexation of their civilization was just conservation. No one can make it alone anymore. Not him. Not them. But together, their survivability increased exponentially.
But his hand shook.
He was nervous. No, he was thirsty. He was hungry. They had run out of food that wasn’t radiated, outdated, or emaciated. They needed to be satiated.
Dirt rested in the creases of his palm. A thin layer of sweat coated his hand. Blisters were at the base of each finger.
Before my story, I just wanted to apologize for not being around as much (writing, reading others, commenting, etc). Just got a new job and started summer classes! Things have been a little hectic! I’ll be around more when things settle down. Thanks for everyone who keeps coming by anyway!
It wasn’t luck.
He had spent too many years needled to a hospital bed in debilitating pain; he had spewed too many piles of puke; he had swallowed too many pain pills for it to be luck.
He had spent too many years fighting; he had spent too much time honing his craft; he had spent too many resources in blind hope for it to be luck.
It wasn’t definitive.
It wasn’t complimentary.
It wasn’t devised.
It was a sign. A sign that didn’t tell him he’d be rich, or appreciated, or loved, but a sign that he would be successful in what mattered.
Buried beneath a boneyard of battered tombstones lies hordes of insomniacs that clatter through their stretched coracles. Open eyes and empty mouths remain ingrained to their one-manned vessel while they should be traveling the tributary to hereafter, but inhumane mock mourners fancied Charon’s obol too overpriced to inhume.
I can still hear the hum of hamstrung hopefuls: murmurs of eager souls. Restlessness resumes even after a formal curtain call if relatives leave residue from roguish relationships unresolved: irresolution to vocalize merciful verbiage in a favorable vein. Oblivious people speak a hostile vernacular comparable to Narcissus himself, at least until their retributive day.