Ficlets

Some stories come softly, like a sunset, fading in and fading out like night and day. Soft like cat’s feet. Soft like breath; like voices carried for miles on the wind, caressing your ears like classical music.

But some stories. Some stories, they hit you like a physical weight, like a punch in the gut. They knock the breath out of you and force words from your fingers, wring words out of your heart. They break you into a cold sweat at night, make you nervous during the day.

It’s a burden to hold them inside you for too long. It starts to hurt, like a dull ache at the base of your skull where the words gather.

Stories like these, they weigh on you. They make your mind think in circles, always coming back to the imaginary plot that somehow seems more real than anything else in your life. Always, there’s a deep heaviness on your heart. Words that stain like ink.

And all the time, those stories shake you, whispering “Tell me. Tell me tell me.” And so you do.

Because it’s just too much not to.