Your Tiny, Sleepy Town.

There are whispers around your tiny, sleepy town of something that brews deep within the  harbor; sunken ships and fallen sailors. You think nothing of it; even as the water moans in the midst of the night. You swear you can hear whispers over the ocean when her waves are calm; names of those lost so close to shore. To salvation. To home. They want your company. You ignore it.

Every building is old; they sink into muddy earth and tilt on their sides. No one ever really leaves them; trapped between each brick. Their lives become history, and you study it, intrigued by the specters that make up your tiny, sleepy town. Their stories are recorded, albeit, riddled with inconsistencies. This angers a few, for others, it is enough. You live in one of these houses, built so long ago; people say something wanders your halls at night. They seem to watch over you; silent guardians doused in black that keep the nightmares at bay. You ignore it, even as your cat chatters with an unseen force in the shadows of your room.

You walk often down the main stip of your tiny town; those old, tall, saggy brick buildings towering over you one moment, and then feet of cracked, rain speckled lots greeting you the next. At times, you can see them in the window; eyes that follow you. And at times, despite the headphones plugged snugly in your ears, you can hear those whispers. Calling from the harbor. You ignore it.

Main street is silent during the week; shops and restaurants closed. Signs hang in cracked, and broken windows, all of them bitten by harsh frost and salty winds: come back soon. You wonder how they remain open in the drought of winter when no one dares leave their homes for fear of the bitter cold. Everyone knows your name around these parts, and yet you can not conjure the syllables to return with their own. You know their faces, their stories. But, they all blur between shots of cinnamon whisky, and vodka punctuated with the twang of cranberry juice in the time lapse that is the weekend.

The docks scare you; the water scares you. Not for fear of drowning but those that linger beneath darkened waves. Fear that you belong with them, and not here in your tiny, sleepy town. And the walk home from the bar is so tempting; to simply peek at what writhes with in those waters. You linger near the docks. They call you. They want you.

You ignore it.

Author's Note

Inspired by the town I live in, and my own personal experiences in. Not sure if it is finished, might expand on it soon.