Friday Fictioneers: What Lies Deep
Churn, churn, rumble, surge. Words streamed out and crashed into me, like waves against a rocky shore. But I am not made of stone. Words, unlike water, don’t simply wash away. Everything changes. Even the stone, over time, gets worn down. Churn, churn, rumble, surge. My nerves are frayed. Sleep dances out of reach. At least now I know. The…