From My Writing

SILENCE

In a small cottage overhanging a cliff, a shrill screech echoed in the mist. A small girl lay awake in her bed. Lightning flashed across the sky. Sea foam splashed onto the window.  “Papa!” The girl cried out for comfort. A tired, withered man, hobbled his way down the hall. The door whined as it opened, his small frame backlit by the hallway light. She sat up in bed and reached for her father.  “Papa! Someone is screaming!” she wildly gesticulated to the window overlooking the cliff. The man shuffled towards the bed which creaked beneath him. Outside the ocean…

My parents were surgeons and I talked to furniture

I grew up alone in a big house,
And my parents weren’t always home-
they were surgeons you see-
and I talked to furniture.

My parents came and went
and when I asked if I could go-
they said:
“no, this is what big people do, maybe
when you’re older.”
They were surgeons you see-
and I talked to furniture.