Echoes
“The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.”—William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
I carry my dead with me everywhere I go.
Their voices don’t fade, they speak, clear as a bell,
like when my aunt told me to get my river house and we saw it that day, made an aggressive offer, and live in it now.
Or my dad, saying “I wouldn’t if I were you” when I think I can get away with something.
Grandaddy telling me he’s never heard of Aunt Lanta but knows Uncle Lanta when I mispronounce Atlanta.
Gloria ordering a cocktail
And you, even though you’re not dead. I still see you standing there, promising to catch me, swearing you won’t let me fall.
I still feel all of it.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
MA English literature, College of Charleston
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The Devil's Triangle
The sails ruffled in the breeze as we cruised along. The Sea Breeze was a mid-size catamaran that sailed out of Royal Naval Dockyard in Bermuda. We had booked this trip weeks in advance and were now looking at our Captain, Spike and two boat hands. Paddy and Wilson seemed like nice guys, joking around with the passengers and telling us some stories about Bermuda that only locals would know. Their island accents sounded almost British but they were pleasant to listen to.
By Barbara Gode Wilesa day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Free of sarcasm, brimming and bursting with sincerity. This was beautiful kiddo. Truly.