Rachel Merritt

The Last Herald

Concrete walls slick with the dark stench of mold encase the small prison where I wait. Always waiting, I am. Be it for a new era, the forgotten promise, or for my own death, it is the waiting that defines my destiny. I am sure my enemies would call my execution the apex of my short existence, but it is not. For the harbinger of eternal rest must come for all heralds eventually and most certainly shall claim me too beyond this hole. No...my fate has been and always will be to hope.