by Steppen Sawicki
I’m going to keep writing. It’s all I can do to deal with the hate that has manifested itself in my country. It’s the only way I can think of to cope unless I want to start drinking. Because I feel afraid and unsafe. My friends feel afraid and unsafe and I don’t know how to help them. So I’m going to write.
Drabble: I don’t know what genre
The new soul arrived tired, filled with regret, still reeking of death. It wavered in the field in the cold air, and cried out, though its voice didn’t carry. It was alone, as alone as it had been within its skin. But its skin had fallen away, and it was naked and without anchor.
Others rose from the creek, ephemeral shades stepping out to welcome it. They moved forward, wrapping themselves around it, calling it to join with them. Letting it know it was no longer alone, that it was now a part of a whole.
So the fog gathered.