The string
flies through her fingers. Knots and knots. Beauty and peace. Pulled
through her graceful hands. I’ve watched her forever, rarely does
she sleep. Sleep brings dreams
She told me once, as she washed her bruised and bloody hands, why she
hates dreams. She said, “ Whispers and glances to secrets I’ll
never have. A never ending burden, a gift to an unrelenting Hell. Look
at the beautiful man lieing in the bed. It’s a waste of skin.”
She knew that man once, a sad man was he. For every night he went
to bed dreams of Heaven played in his head. He was happy when he slept,
but everyone must wake. He hated the world where Heaven meant death.
So he drank some poison and slept forever. He lies just down the hall,
on a canopy bed.
Her back is hunched and her hands calloused. But she never stops. Each
story has a knot. Many stories does she have to tell. Every time the
clock strikes one another story is heard and the wheel placed by her
knee turns. More strings, more knots. The man down the hallway sighs
in his sleep as his body begins to rot.
He was her love. But she wasn’t his Heaven. She couldn’t
compete with dreams. So she spends her time knotting new stories. For
with string all is bound, and in a story her love may be found...
Welcome
to Beautiful Insanity. Here you will find short stories and poems written
by Lisa Wiggins
