Sometimes I feel as if I’m walking a tightrope. Without anyone’s knowledge. This daily balancing act I navigate on my own.
Looking always for some safe spot to land, but never really finding it. And so I continue to balance, swaying back and forth.
I’ve seen others, read about others who have found what it is I search for. How long did they struggle, how long did they balance on their tightrope finally daring to jump.
And all I see surrounding me is quicksand, waiting to pull me under. Should I call for help? Should I reach out for a hand? Who do I trust?
And still I balance, wavering, shaking with the tension, knowing that I’m too weak to continue much further. Too weak to call out for help.
There is but one spot for me to land, a speck in an ocean of failure.
And still I balance, the rope starting to fray.
About the Creator
Katie
Really just an amateur trying my hand at this.
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 Rolly5 days ago in Horror
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