Aliens, cripteds.
Covid19, it's surreal.
Twenty- twenty-three.
About the Creator
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More stories from Pamela Walsh-Holte and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Silence of the Parisian Parquet
For fifteen years, my life was a perfectly calibrated microscope. Every morning at 6:00 AM, without exception, the alarm clock was my general. It lined me up like a soldier—getting ready, out the door, waiting for the bus or the SkyTrain in Vancouver. At exactly 7:50 AM, I would hold my Starbucks coffee in my hand, not as a pleasure, but as fuel for an engine that wasn’t allowed to stop. At exactly 8:00 AM, I would turn on the light on my microscope.
By Magma Starabout 16 hours ago in Poets
Life will find a way
One cocoon twitches; my screaming must have disturbed it. It’s followed by a sound like the shaking of a cobra’s tail. A dry rattle sends a shiver down my spine. The rest of the cocoons respond the same way, as if communicating with one another; the cave fills with rattling. The glow becomes stronger as they vibrate and bathes the cave floor in an eerie blue light.
By N J Delmasa day ago in Chapters
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