It has been five years since I have been estranged from my family,
My dad is aging and has a progressive lung disease.
He was magnificent in this world to his peers,
A physician whose intelligence came in spades.
However, when his days end, he will be a corpse.
No pulse, no beat, yet a memory,
Worm food just like a lonely beggar.
We are in this world a short time,
I do not hold anger to his rejecting me,
For when it's time,
And I leave this world behind,
I will join him for the feast for the worms,
At supper.
About the Creator
Sid Aaron Hirji
Canadian born man who finds literature and science equally fascinating. Trauma bleeds through generations, words heal the hidden scars.
youtube https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS3WEyx5XeX-o8xRwG-cMlg
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More stories from Sid Aaron Hirji and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
Comments (4)
powerful story. Maybe he's a "J" personality, as sort of an INFP i was never on the same wavelength as a lot of my family either who are mostly J on the MBTI.
I am also estranged from some of my family. It hurts, but they are not open to truth, just what they believe is their truth. I hope you get to at least get closure before he becomes worm food. Those words say how hurt you are, but you can only do what you can do. Life is like that sometimes. Hugs and blessings.
I'm so sorry about your father's condition. Sending you lots of love and hugs ❤️
Keep it up.