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The land wants you here. I want you here, you called. Don't you care about that at all?

Lucy Christopher

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Lucy Christopher
Age: 54
Author
Writer
WAL
Called
Care
Wants
Land

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When the darkness gets easier, you know you're sinking deeper, becoming dead yourself.
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How would she find her herd? How would she find you?
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You won't be able to hurt me, or touch me.
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You're right, he's a killer, you said. A rooster with some serious issues.
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I remember that feeling of skin. It's strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.
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I want you to see that the person I glimpsed running beside the camel, running to save my life, is the person you can choose to be.
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Your beautiful mouth was moving like a caterpillar. I reached out and tried to catch it.
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There were tiny stars behind my eyelids, a whole galaxy of tiny, spinning stars.
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There is no need to put your heart in a bottle, then you will die. - Ty from Stolen
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The people we care for aren't always the one we should
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I mean, that star over there is blinking at me madly now, but for how long? An hour or two, or for the next million years? And how long will we sit here like this? Just another moment, or the rest of our lives? You know which one I'd prefer.
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And it's hard to hate someone once you understand them.
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But what else can I do, other than to plead with you like this? Other than to write down my story, our story, to show you that what you've done . . . to make you realize that what you did wasn't fair, wasn't right.
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You nodded towards the cup. Want more? I shook my head. What about the car? Didn't find it. You were heading back towards me when I found you. Towards . . . ? You nodded. So I reckoned the car had probably got stuck or died somehow, and you were just coming home. Home? Yeah. Your mouth twitched. Back to me.
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I was surprised at her gentleness, her willingness to give in.
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The deep blue of your eyes had secrets. I wanted them.
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The sand stretched out gray and ghostlike and illuminated, a column of light leading forward. It was like something a dead person would see, a tunnel leading toward heaven.
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I chased money, pretended to be someone else to get it. It got easier the longer I did it... but that's the trap, see? When the deadness gets easier, you know you're sinking deeper, becoming dead yourself.
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I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.
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