i have a sneaking suspicion
that whoever is in charge of this
doesn’t feel too compelled to enunciate words
trapped in the back of their throat
that no one seems to know the definition of
quite yet
a mystery is solved every 4 minutes,
only to be confronted by another conundrum
every 3 seconds,
until the unknown overtakes the known,
and all i’m left with is is a dowsing rod covered
in peanut butter
after spending an entire afternoon
looking for the most perfect pb&j sandwich
out in the wild,
though it seems like they’ve all gone extinct
The light flickered.
I noticed my dirty fingernails.
I noticed my stance.
I noticed I lack grace.
I noticed there’s nothing I could do at that point. I’m committed.
A silhouette cast in penumbra snaked across the floor. There is no sound. The walls vibrate. Every muscle in my body tightens until it hurts. I’m reeled over in pain.
I’m certain I’m bleeding. I need to be taken to the hospital, I tell no one. I don’t say a word. I can’t say a word. At one point in my life I could speak five languages, but none of them come to mind at that very moment.
No one could hear me, either way.
The silhouette reaches out. It grabs, and I can feel its tendrils tighten. I can feel a squeeze pulsating through my veins.
I shout.
But I don’t.
Small cuts erase the pieces of my body I thought would always be protected.
I stood up for the first time since I could remember. I become painfully aware. I collapsed. I stepped over the body and walked out into the night.
Fred Aiken Writing 