R. M. Townsend
Texas gothic. Romantic. Photographic. Mostly boring.
“What do I do now?” Her question hangs in my mind, my heart beating steady as I jingle little bronze bells over the flickering wick of an ocean blue candle. The light dances in my eyes and I study the flame as it moves. My hand flourishes across the page of my journal, documenting, scribing, casting words onto the page, and forming ethereal bonds with crow-black ink. Lyra and I have been friends for nearly a decade. She trusts me, and I do my best to help her and others with my gifts when I can.
The rain hadn’t stopped for days. On the fourth day, I was staring out my window in a haze of boredom as cloudy as the sky above my two-story, cookie-cutter home. Lying on my right side with my head upon an absurd mountain of pillows offers perfect high-definition viewing of the street I live on. My siblings chattered down the hall in their rooms, my brother to his online DND friends and my sister enacting glamourous lives through her Barbie dolls. The family cat wanders into view and rubs against the old tree in our front yard, and the weird neighbor who is obsessed with our cat (a long story), walks up to pet him. Why is he out in the drizzle? I don’t know. He’s a weirdo.