she hadn't always been like this.
she was the reflection of the sun in a rain droplet, bringing light and joy to a place where there otherwise was gloom.
she was the definition of virtue, a pure heart with a warm soul.
she had now become the rain.
she now has a broken soul.
she spends her days now, locked away in her room.
she cries to the gods for forgiveness, for answers, but she never receives them.
she raises her hands, brings them down to her knees, bowing to an entity that isn't there.
she wails to the air, but her calls are fruitless.
she is only met with silence.
she atrophies in her bed when she isn't calling out.
she stares blank-eyed at the ceiling, waiting for nothing.
she becomes an empty shell of the lively woman she once was.
About the Creator
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More stories from Julian Truelove and writers in Poets and other communities.
Visions, Revisited
It had been years since I last visited that old house on the corner. It was nothing remarkable, just a dinky little cottage with flowers growing around it, and a little swinging seat on the front porch. It still looked good as new, even if it hadn't been lived in for many years. Someone still mowed the grass, kept the windows shiny, maybe weeded the garden, or swept the porch for good measure. It was well cared for.
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Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
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