Tansy Undercrypt
Author, Illustrator, Purveyor of Doom & Whimsy

Words

August 10th 2017 in Microfiction

“Some write from the richness of their lives; I write from lack.” Stoddard held the page close to his readers, balanced carefully in his gloved hands. “I write of things I do not know now and fear I will never know: wealth, security, and robust physical health.” “Wow,” Stoddard said, not looking up. “Just wait,” Cortez commented from his chair in the corner. “Most of all, I am filled with disappointment that real love (steeped in softness and grounded in sanity) has been denied me, close companion to a dread that my heart will learn only loss in this life (if it learns anything at all). I suspect that my death will not be peaceful, but a welcome release all the same.” Stoddard sighed heavily, carefully putting the page back into its protective sleeve. “Words fail me,” he said at last. “Interesting,” Cortez said quietly. “For Poe, words were the only things that never failed him.”


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