I sometimes heard a calling. Like skirts rustling on the floor above me—and I knew if I could plunge my fingers through the ceiling, I might touch the hem of the reason I am here.
My sister, too, was aware of a path to be trod somewhere above where we slept. Because when a shuffle of feet passed through the attic, our necks both reached for it.
And once she said, apropos of nothing, “I understood, for a moment… but I lost the thread.”
And I knew exactly what she meant.
About the Creator
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Comments (7)
This is so good. Will keep reading it over again.
Hmm, this is really good. Again, layers. I've two potential possibilities floating in my mind and they're probably no where close to your intentions with the piece. I really like this. For some reason you're writing always brings me to think about other authors that I feel you would appreciate. Have you ever read The Virgin Suicides ? This story is like a bird's eye view of the Lisbon Sisters from within. Again, very cool. More more.
"I lost the thread" Goodness me that line is perfect. Mysterious... magical... marvellous. Nailed it.. or should I say... you have this sewn up! 😉
What a mysterious and thought provoking piece! So well constructed and written! Nicely done Morgana!
Oh, Morgana! Such mystical imagery, bridging the gap & transporting us between the outer world & that of our inner sense of calling, purpose, identity, holding us there, suspended within both. This is magnificent!
Your use of words creates such a beautiful imagery. I always enjoy your work.
THIS. This is such an exquisite weave of mystery and hidden danger in so few words. I won't be surprised if this places in the challenge 😄