Ficlets

I think I’m going to be sick. I try to go on, stumbling and fumbling for my way. Every joint feels twice its size and aches to be moved, as if my whole body may at any moment revolt and cease to follow my desperate instructions.

The stairs come too fast, and the slick railing evades my attempts at a firm grasp. Am I going down or trying to climb up? Why won’t my head some pounding? I stop two steps into another flight among the endless flights to let my stomach expel a small quantity of acrid air, burning my nostrils with the smell of curdled milk and something earthy. I don’t even know what I ate, but if it tasted anything like that I’m glad I don’t remember eating it.

Four more steps, and before I know it I’m sitting down, back against the wall, staring back up the spiral of railings. Something is wrong. So many things are wrong. I am wrong. All that is left is to take this picture, so that you may remember me. And now I will sing a prayer for these walls and my g-d to hear before I die.