maelynslavik

Introduction: I’m writing a story that hopefully never comes true. I recently read Orwell’s 1984, and I saw some disturbing similarities to today’s United States under the Trump administration.

Sunny days brought her life.

The flower loved sunny days.

She flourished under the bright star,

smiled at its rise.

But then the next day,

it rained.

Hard.

Like a thunderstorm.

When you were a kid,

When you were still learning animal names,

And awed by the world around you,

What did it mean when you looked up,

At other kids, at adults,

Octopuses have three hearts. I’ve been told that I do too. Is it the way I look at you or the way I listen? Is it how I place my hand on your shoulder or how I smile?