Original article posted by ravenpaine:

You step up to the microphone, insecure in posture, unsure of your material, and afraid of your audience. Too many thoughts racing through your head. You tighten your grip on the sheet of piecemeal fiction in your too-moist hand.

They know, they know.

And they can see. They have eyes, eyes that see how you failed. The fight you had that summer.

Years of degradation and neglect and now you’re standing at a microphone and everyone can hear you screaming your crimes into the silence created by your shuffling feet and voiceless fiction.

Tap out the beats between words with your tread-worn shoes. Look to the left and then to the rest and know that your time is up. Depart the stage to mingled nods and weak smiles.

“You finished here?” grunts Raguel, sneering over a filterless Lucky next to the door.

You frown as you leave the parish, “It’s not my best eulogy.”


“But they don’t have to know that.”