My home is dark and dank and dim. Usually quiet and always warm. Sometimes it's squishy with hardly any room, so much so I feel as if I cannot breathe or move or wiggle even an inch. Other-times I feel almost alone, with room to fall or letdown with to much space, when my friends have been taken to other homes unknown. My home never smells of cookies, candy, or other sweets. Those things are not allowed. No gum, or chocolate, muffins or sugary drinks. My home is a library.
Once I was taken away and sensed such things, a few of my pages were even bent. It is a time I resent. But still I dream of going again, not for lack of comfort but because so many of my friends come and go. They share stories of other homes, places bright, dirty or far too clean. Places I think I might want to see. Places without so many books. Places with couches, beds, and baskets. Places I might find adventure all of my own. An adventure not contained in my pages or the walls of my home.
by: Cassie M Shiels
Where I share my Microfiction. aka Really really short stories
I just wanted a way to practice and share my writing in a super fun but short way. Yes they will often become narrative poetry but that is. only because I like rhythm and rhyme.