lacrimae rerum

I like to think of myself as a writer.

The voices in my head talk over each other, a multitude of conversations all happening at once. I press the palms of my dirty hands to my temples, willing them to shut up, but to no avail.

Little iridescent beetles scuttle over my feet and through the sea of leaves that blankets the forest floor. I know I should get up, but even the hard forest floor is a comfort after all the time I have spent on the run.

I force myself to stand, and begin again the merciless trudge across the forbidding forest. As I walk, I pray to God that I will live another day. I pray to God that they may not find me here, and once again I beg the voices in my head to stop, but again all my efforts are in vain.


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Comments (2 so far!)

Average reader rating 5.00/5

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

If the protagonist is sitting, wouldn't the bugs scuttle over other parts, not just feet?

Voices are sometimes hard to quell, and it does sometimes an outside force to create change so that the voices turn off.

  • #1277 Posted 7 years ago
  • 0


First, thank you for doing this as a sequel to my writing. Also, sending lots of sympathy and positive thoughts. I'm sorry if you feel this way. I wish my own passage were merely imaginative fiction.

  • #1286 Posted 7 years ago
  • 0
  • 5 out of 5

Inspired by (sequel to):

The disaster happened. What I feared the most, really occurred. I lost it all, all I wanted to keep,…


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