The room was silent, the air still. Sweat dampened her clothes and hair leaving them clinging to glistening skin. Standing by the lone window, arms held tightly across her stomach, tension rolled off her in waves which were almost visible.
Not for the first time I wondered how a figment of my imagination, a wisp of a dream, could seem so real I could almost reach out and touch her.
There were times when I thought I knew her better than I did myself, others I was left thinking she was a stranger, separate. Thinking of her blazing blue eyes, they often seemed endless wells, which if I fell into them, I would lose myself forever.
I tossed myself onto the bed, pointedly keeping my eyes on the yellowing paint on the ceiling.
Sitting at her desk, looking at the assignment written on the board, she saw proof of her belief teachers had a morbid sense of humor.
“Write your own eulogy.”
All things considered, it could be seen as an omen of sorts, how such a dark subject tied in so well with her own thoughts. She opened her notebook to a blank page; holding her pen over the page she thought about what to write. Truth or exaggeration? While she figured he classmates would write fanciful accounts of impossible deeds and accomplishments, she had no desire for such nonsense. No, something deep inside demanded truth. Raw, unblemished truth. The sort which didn’t bring comfort to the reader. Dark and sadistic, the words began to form before the pen touched paper.
“ Erin died today. One moment she was here and the second she was not. Few took note of it and fewer still cared. What she might have accomplished, what her dreams were, her hopes or fears went with her as silently as she did herself.
There was no viewing, no pictures nor flowers, No one stood to speak of her or for her, the funeral hall was dark and silent as it should be. There was no funeral, no mourners, no priest to talk her into eternity. Only the cold dark of a grave no one would visit. No headstone or marker. Nothing to note her passage across this Earth.
Only this eulogy buried in a stack of ungraded papers and she was fine with that.”
She doubted anyone really cared one way or the other, it was just a kid’s scribbling to fill a page and get a grade no one would remember.
By Kira A. Moore
A furrowed brow.
A down turned lip.
A flared nostril.
An indrawn breath.
A raised fist.
An unexpected blow.
Home should never be simply a box where you go when there is no where else, an empty shell filled with uncertainty and fear.
She knew, deep down, what she was doing was irresponsible, possibly even dangerous. She also knew, if she were honest with herself, there was a part of her, dark and sinister, which longed for the worst.
As evening falls, she sits at her bedroom window, enjoying the stray breeze. Her thoughts reach out to embrace the slowly spreading shadows wishing they would reach out and spirit her away. Behind her the radio plays softly.
By Kira A. Moore
No one warns you about the small places, the small towns with small schools, small churches, small minds, and smaller hearts.
She preferred the lonely places, the forgotten, the abandoned. Silent parks and empty roads called to her, any place where there was no one else. The wind of her passage was her dearest companion, a friend and comforter, asking no questions and making no demands.
By Kira A. Moore
In the rain,