You are a font of nonsense. With each word, you stray farther from the truth that pains you and makes you drag your sneakered feet. Your mother is dead, no matter how many of your closer acquaintances think she is alive, calling you in the evenings and sending out-of-focus photographs from home, like always. You go to class. You do the work. Nobody needs to know that the funeral isn't for weeks, and until a particular plane turns towards Maine, your eyes will be dim, and your mouth dry. You'll dutifully attend the parties every weekend, and you'll become good friends with the red-headed librarian, who will assume your resting expression has always been a frown, pensive at best. When you're alone, you'll cry, hugging the stuffed turtle that you hide away whenever anyone visits and asks why you're lying on the floor. And not even on the carpet. The minutes will be long, and the hours short. And most of all, you'll think of your baby brother, just out of middle school, who had to dial 911 for the first time, even when he must have known it was no use.
YOU ARE READING
Lost Tales of Kirev
RandomThese are my shorter writing pieces. Not all of them are from the Kirev universe, but most fiction pieces will be compatible with it. I write everything from short stories to poetry to essays. Stay tuned! - - - - - - - - Remember to comment and vote...
