My mother smiled. “I know my baby wasn’t like that.”
I looked at her. “Like what?”
“Like those awful people. Those awful dead people at that hospital.” She paused. “I knew you’d decide to be all right again.”-Sylvia Plath
Celeste peruses shelves while her mind flutters.
Wishes for clarity that never comes.
Says prayers for bliss that won’t subside.
How does she slow her savage heart?
With words, music, and love.
Wants to make others see her.
She begs for forgiveness.
Is she Esther?
Caught in the Bell Jar?
Gasping for precious breath?
A force of nature.
Longing to be cared for like a child.
Unaware of her strength.
She opens the book,
And begins to read.
Finding comfort in Plath’s darkness.
Sylvia, found no light.
100 words (Genre: Hell, I don’t know.)
For anyone unfamiliar with Friday Fictioneers, we write 100-word stories. Stories based on a photo prompt, posted weekly on Wednesdays, on our master site:https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/. The stories run the gamut and the authors come from all over. Stop by Rochelle’s page to find out more. I promise, you won’t be sorry.
As I state every week, please criticize the hell out of my work. Either a red pen, or riding crop will suffice.