Aug 23
Fiona Ella's picture

We Have Given Up

When we search in every corner, turn over every stone, looking for serendipity,
forget our lives and waste away as we wait for for—
and count on the arrival of—
a miracle,
we know.

When we are afraid to hope,
because the things we hope never come true,
and instead we ground ourselves
in this dark, joyless dank prison we call
"reality,"
we understand.

We have given up.

We are so desperate
that we have forgotten that miracles only come when we least expect them.
We have not been joyous enough
(and those times we have been, we've forgotten)
to be brave enough to hope.

And we are certain
that the future is dark.
When we have given up,
how can we turn back?
Simply put, we have stopped

listening.
Aug 22
Fiona Ella's picture

83 Stockholm Lane


The stars were bright as millions of tiny suns in the sky that night, the row of blue-painted houses glowing silvery-grey in the moonlight. No lights shone in the many windows. Nobody stood outside. No cars rode slowly down the newly-paved street. Nothing moved. There was no sound, not a breath of wind, not a whisper of noise. Nobody moved or spoke—indeed, nobody was there to do either. 
                      And then, quietly and as gently as anything ever could, something changed. The window of one of the imperious houses was suddenly, without a sound or breath, alive with glowing light. The curtain billowed outward, and shadows appeared in the light. Nobody saw the black-coated man slip across the street and towards the open window, like a moth being summoned to the light that would bring its death.

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