my writing corner

The book is clutched in her hands, her fingers wrapped around it, the leather tong holding it closed between her second and third fingers. How she found it, hidden away, is beyond me, but there it is. In the pale darkness, she’s giving me a curious, almost amusing, look, as though she knows what is written on the pages. Lifting an eyebrow, her lips curve into a small smile. “What is this?” she asks me, her low, lilting voice soft. I remain silent, still surprised that she found the book, hoping she will find the answer in my silence. Moonlight filters in through the single window of our bedroom, silhouetting her from behind. I sigh, still staring at the book in her hands, as I sit down in the rocking chair next to the armoire. Leaning forward, her fingers fiddling with the leather thong wrapped around the book, she rests her elbows on her knees. Her eyes never leave my face, searching for an answer that isn’t there. With her face hidden in shadow, I can’t read her expression w

Nothing is permanent. People leave their mark by making art, creating buildings that are made to last, leaving imprints of themselves. Everything gets washed from the memories of man, anyways, left only for the history books. The only thing that holds on to the remains of memories are the walls of ancient buildings on the brink of disappearing, and the ground they stand on. The basement of the hospital is hauntingly beautiful in its eerie emptiness; of course, there are people coming and going, but at night, hardly anyone is down here. Just a few lingering nurses and pharmacy workers, an occasional wandering someone or other who’s late in leaving from their 9-5, a random doctor or surgeon. Transient shift workers who come and go like the days of the week. In the safety of their work place, in the comfort given to them by badges and scrubs, they don’t think anything of what lurks in the shadows. The history of this hospital is old; it has just as many horror stories as it does