RACHEL'S BEEN SITED

Archive for the tag “loss”

Echoes in Solitude

If you’ve followed me long enough to wonder about the title (“Hey, didn’t she already post a piece called ‘Echoes’? Man, how uncreative.”) — this piece, had the story been completed, would have taken place in the same universe as my original “Echoes” post HERE.  As things stand, nothing directly connects the two scenes, and each can be enjoyed independently of the other.

Echoes

            The house had been silent for nearly three weeks, now.  To Rea Hayes, its only occupant, it had felt like much longer.

            Only occupant… She allowed the words to settle over her, and shuddered.

            Unwashed laundry had begun to pile up in the corner behind the kitchen – work things, mostly.  Somehow, when she came home she always ended up in the same old oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the blank TV screen, her tray table a line of phones. Read more…

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Where Birds Go

There’s a place on campus where the birds go to die. I can’t say why they choose the spot, or how it fits into the strange web of their avian philosophy.  But I can say, truly and simply, that they go there. I’ve seen them littered amongst the stones between buildings like fallen leaves, on their sides, as if in sleep. But a bird has never slept so, and their small black eyes are open and empty.

Read more…

Pieces

The wilderness had never felt less like freedom.  It had been their escape in the ages before; whenever the concrete world started to crumble, when the bruises had felt more like home than punishment.  When there’d been nothing left except a stale acceptance that this is what life was now, this is what they were meant for.

When that look had started to creep into one of their eyes, the other one had unfailingly jumped up, grabbed an arm, and wrenched him away to this speck of tree-lined sanctuary.  The pool of dirty water that they’d named a pond; the shrubs that had risen up like forested walls to protect them.  And, for a little while, they had breathed the free air and thought maybe they stood a chance of escaping it all.

But today he came out alone.  His pressed white shirt felt too starched under the black blazer.  The tie constricting his throat, making it impossible to breathe.

And there was nothing in this that felt like freedom.  The water was rainwater.  The shrubs were shrubs. The magic was gone.

The cold earth, the pine box, had swallowed more than his brother that morning.

A drabble created as part of a simple writing exercise: put your music playlist on shuffle, start writing a scene inspired by the music, and stop as soon as the song is done.  This piece is named after the song, by Red, that was playing while I wrote it.

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