In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “1984. The urge to write and the ability to transmute my zippy thoughts, wild emotions and life conflicts into prose and poetry has been a true and steadfast friend to me since childhood. At age five, I practiced writing my name until it was “legible”, according to some nameless adult-type human. In a solemn ceremony I got a library card, my ticket to a world of quiet carpeting and the sweet, paper-thin smell of books. Sanctuary.
My nightmare goes like this: I sit in a room painted bright white, with no windows. The light hurts my eyes. It must be recessed, it seems to come from everywhere. This place feels like an operating room, clinical and cold as ice. My inspiration, f.k.a “my ability to write it out of my system”, an alien life form from another dimension, has her back turned to me. I cannot see her face, I never have, because her face constantly changes. Sometimes it’s my friend Denise from high school, sometimes it’s my black satin cat Happy, sometimes it’s my ex. Sometimes, I think, she’s me, but I’m never really sure. I take the good with the bad, and she does exactly the same thing for me. My one, true friend.
In that one horrible moment we’ve all had, she turns her back on me. I hear her skirts swishing ever so softly as her hips rotate away. It’s all in slo-mo, the way real horrors show themselves. When the door silently closes behind her, I know somehow that she’s gone forever. There ain’t no more.
That’s why I write every day, to keep this nightmare from coming true. I hope it works. I know someday it won’t. Then all I can do is hope for the future, and read the works of others, until someday she returns. Or not.