Prose Blog

Seven people sat around a table in a pastiche corner of a postmodern university, commenting on the sound of students walking by. They allowed themselves to be confused by the paradoxes that overwhelmed their readings, discussing and debating the necessity of absolute truths.

Seb had lived his entire life in Heywick. Seventeen years spent on the shore of the Sea of Steel, looking out at the islands dotted across the bay. Seventeen years spent listening to the stories of Riders returning from quests to the north and the east, hearing about their adventures in Ghost Tower and the Tomb of Horrors. Everywhere outside of Heywick sounded exciting; inside, there was nothing to do but sit by the water and pretend to be fishing to avoid being yelled at by your parents for not pulling your weight.

She sat on the shattered gutter beside what was once the road. She held an acoustic guitar, its strings barely holding on, its neck bent, holes punched into its fragile body. Still she made it sing, somehow, plucking the steel-coated nylon where it was held in taut lines across the crumbling shell.

‘So, you’re saying there’s another world beneath ours?’ a gentleman shouted from the front row. The interruption startled Marie; she was not used to being stopped in the middle of a lecture.

All he does is complain. He spends all day outside, wherever he goes, and then he comes home just as it’s about to get dark and complains. He acts as though being locked in this prison all day, every day, would be a blessing. I try to explain to him that it’s actually hell, but he just scratches me behind the ears and thanks me for understanding. What a moron.