Michael Harrison
Bio
Adventurer and nature enthusiast. Aspiring children's book author, novelist, and poet. Perpetual dreamer. My thoughts and ramblings are lost within the multitudes of notebooks I purchase and I don't have any hesitation in adding one more.
Stories (17)
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What rots a house?
First it starts slow. You might not even notice it at first thought. Vines creeping up start out as decorations. They bring smiles and joy, leaves and fruit. They reach windows, trellises, flower boxes. Starting out as green and full of life they reach the roof before long. Clawing at the attic, where memories and love lives, reminding us of our past and our present. Before long they become hard. Woody. Covered with scars and knotted bark. The leaves die-off slowly and fall, berries sour and fall, landing where no one will see them, sinking slowly into the soft ground.
By Michael Harrison3 years ago in Fiction
Unboxed
It sat where it had every morning since it arrived, restlessly in a sunbeam. Longing for the tape to be removed, for its doors to be swung open wide. I sat in an eternal stare down from my chair, refusing its internal desire to be opened. Boxes had always held this power. The anticipation of opening it was more satisfying than what lie within. But this was different. It had arrived in the night with no note. No description. It felt….different.. this box. Like it was screaming to be opened. Yet I could not bring myself to do it. I felt a sense of duty to leave it closed. So I sat. I stared. I waited.
By Michael Harrison3 years ago in Fiction
Monday at the Shedd
The fluorescent lights flickered on, alerting me that soon, the guests would be here. This is the life of working in an aquarium. Often times in the early hours of the morning, when there are few others around, I find myself listening for the ancient songs of the ocean. The chittering of dolphins and the low sounds of the seals. The hidden language of these creatures is one I have become innately in tune with in my time at the Shedd Aquarium. Today was no different than any other day, another opportunity to shine, another opportunity to learn, and another opportunity to grow. Layers of fingerprints on the glass made a mockery of the voice on the speaker and signs plastered all around: "Please do not tap on the glass." Reminders that the creatures the guests were here to see were living, breathing, functioning creatures.
By Michael Harrison3 years ago in Fiction
dream \ ˈdrēm \
if my dreams were books they would be a series of unfortunate events the bad beginning, like a tortoise being thrown in a pond. that is that much like houses with wide windows, they cant swim. all these thoughts just milling, miserably around my mind like sawdust in a breeze, stuck to every corner causing a feeling quite austere. austere meaning in this case, of course, stern and cold. my dreams could never feel very morally strict, that would defeat the purpose. like an elevator that only goes down, it would be rather ersatz. these dreams are often vile, hostile, and often time carnivorous, devouring what little rest i have before i can wake up and leaving me sliding down the slippery slope of dark thoughts, into a grim grotto of depression, anxiety, seemingly the penultimate place i will find myself before i reach the end.
By Michael Harrison3 years ago in Poets
