ushered into a wood chip lit room
the smell of potato chips burning
she's ushered , an part dragged
she's nervous , an part curious
he's reading her
she knows it
she feels eyes on her
as a wet sac falls from her
still attached to the insides, of her
a red fish
lays in the sac
that lays on the floor
that clings to her insides
the fish gasped
she gasped
the fish gasped again
she gasped feverishly
she heard the words without them spoken aloud
the fish ; if I stop
you stop
... breathing
fish gasp to my gasp
a moonlit melody of air moving in sound
both holding on
I gasp an I gasp
choking on the air trying to get in
the fish lays still
breath stopped
mine lets out ,
as my eyes flit open
About the Creator
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 17 hours ago in Fiction
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