i wonder on occasion, had my mother and father settled on a different name to print upon my birth certificate, would it have altered the course of my life in any way at all.
if they had called me "tyra," would i have grown to favor the warmth of colors like yellow or orange or neon pink? and would i wrap my body in their shades, unafraid to draw in the eyes of those who might condemn me for adorning my weighty figure with such "unflattering" colors?
would i even be as large? or would i treat food as sustenance and less of a thing to fill up empty holes, the type of holes that cannot be filled with cakes and chips.
would i even care?
would i even care, if i were thin or fat or something in between? what if all the things gnawing at my heart today were nothing more than passing thoughts to her?
i wonder who "tyra" could've turned into, if not just the same, though i suppose it's futile to daydream about the potential of some letters, added and rearranged.
About the Creator
melancholy galaxies
• tory edana talbott •
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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 Rolly3 days ago in Horror
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