I don't feel like the catch of the day.
More like the bait bobbing on top of the waves crashing around me.
Troubled waters carry my weight with no effort. I toss and twist atop this heavy void devoid of signs of life. This place could be empty. I ride the omnipotent current waiting for something to swallow me whole.
They prefer darkness.
I made them that way.
I prefer them that way.
No longer the quiet companion for the night. My creations have become something more akin to the monsters beneath the bed.
The beast behaves like an angler fish from the deepest depths leaving a beautiful light trailing and gliding through the darkness. I see the light before I feel it's hideous figure form and take shape baring teeth like pins and needles and headaches and the taste of vomit on a Tuesday morning.
It reaches and glides like an octopus able to squeeze into the smallest spaces between the cracks. Leaving a thick, black trail in its path to mask the road ahead. Only after I sweep away the clouds of ink and console myself do I realise that a week has passed, nothing has been done and the house is a mess.
My monsters are cold-blooded, callous and violent with a trail of violet they move between the trenches and waves smelling the water for signs of prey.
I wait.
Too tired to swim away.
There's a poetic kind of justice in being killed by what you create.
About the Creator
Sean Macdonald
Part time poet.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.