A Story by Eira Anchor

written 31/01/14 5,40am in an attempt not to be a hypocrite when preaching at a friend to write something

i don't particularly want to go to the party, but i haven't spoken to anyone in days and they're all incredibly nice people, so i have no real excuse not to except that i don't want to. my heavy, under-slept body feels rooted to the mattress. but it's 8,30pm and i've been in bd since 2. the lighting seeped out at 4 but I'm used to the dark. i slowly pull back the soft covers, with my hands that are growing more withered and wrinkled by the second. i place each foot on the floor and simply stare, not even in wonder or surprise when they appear to melt into it - my soles disappearing into the carpet as the hobbit hairs on my toes intertwine with the threadbare rug.
a solid, sinewy feeling creeps up my legs until I'm standing straight. i lift my left hand to look at my greying fingernails growing, twisting and stretching away from me in mangled directions towards either wall of my bedroom - first this hand, now the other.
next, my hazel hair extends away from me. it's as if each strand of my body cannot be to be attached to me but can't break away from my core - the trunk. each molecule stands on end and points out in every direction - not even wanting to touch each other. finally, my wooden brown eyes stop wondering and fix on the curtain. now I'm definitely not going to the party - ever

© 2017 Eira Anchor

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Added on May 16, 2017
Last Updated on May 16, 2017
Tags: trees


Eira Anchor
Eira Anchor


I'm only here for the reading, now. Though I couldn't help noticing it's the new writerscafe thing-to-do to post one of your favourite poems in your 'about me'? Am I right? Here goes: III The Oc.. more..

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A Story by Eira Anchor