Story a day: 4.8.16

Using the first line of a random poem:

“Blessed be this place”

Blessed be this place, this place of peace, this place of seclusion. There is nothing beautiful here and that is beauty itself. A nook in the rock, with slick black walls furry with moss. A blessed place where we make our home.

The children don’t like the damp and cold. They wail through the pitch black nights. She cries as well; she tries to hide it, but we’ve never been able to hide anything from each other. Even in those delicate days when we first met and were still learning each other’s tongues, she knew me without words, and I her. It grieves me to ask them to suffer so, makes me think that perhaps I am the monster they name me. Who but a monster could put their wife and children through this? Who but a monster could ask them to live in this hole, hiding from a doom we all know is inevitable?

Blessed be this place, for now. For now. Until they find it. Blessed be this dank pit in the side of a mountain. Blessed be the doom racing toward us.

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