🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
The world at the bend,
I spill my gravy on the lady at my table.
She doesn’t budge– just stares
At her fork as if it’s GPS.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
They say Table Eight is hexed.
Spoons disappear, friends betray.
I once caught a girl
Braiding her doll’s hair, mumbling.
“Come and eat now,” Her mother cried.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
My backpack holds unseen things-
Staples, pens, a crumpled note,
On which I wrote, “I’m coming.”
But I haven’t yet. The table tilts.
The coffee spills.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
The lady asks, “Do you remember
What you were before time told you to go?”
I stare. I was just a cashier.
Then, coffee grounds spill from a jug–
And arrange themselves into constellations.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
I clock out. The door swings backward.
My shoes step on a road that suddenly appeared.
And Table Eight remains–
Still waiting for its food.
Still asking questions about the stars.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
As it bends, tilts, about to break-
The world will tilt forward.
🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏🌍🌎🌏
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
