The wolf who cries, Is a wolf who thrives. Small, but hungry. Calculated, yet naive.
Warm to the touch, But cold to the bone. He who cries Has you wrapped around their finger. Like a snake coils the very ground below her soul.
The wolf who cries, Is a wolf who climbs And never comes back down.
Norah had ten minutes to kill between Ethics 101 and lunch with an old colleague from the Lory Student Center, Coffee and Brew.
“Jarvey Treasures” read the beaten wood store sign. Norah always had a knack for antiques. Something about reclaiming people’s past to use for your own future seemed positively intriguing.
“Just looking.” Norah softly spoke with a minor smile as she slowly waved her hand at the elderly lady behind the counter. She brushed past a narrow clothing road that smelled like a mixture of cigarettes and 1960s rosey perfume.
The road came to a dead end that faced Norah with a piece from the past that would forever alter her future. The mirror was intricately carved out of wood. The design resembled a gothic framed church door. This mirror was unspeakably magical. Every time Norah made a motion, the mirror reflected a woman that strangely reminded her of features she was all too familiar with.
It used to be much easier to forgive than to forget.
But just like winter follows fall,
And kills off all pigmentation, yet still turns it to a blanket for earth to rest,
This too shall pass.
Just like California skies invade the west with ash, yet, my, what a forgiving sunset she makes. One you will never forget.
But this too shall pass.
And just like the silky baby toe that shoots towards the sky, will someday shrivel to a raisin.
Because,
This too shall pass.
“Hello, who is this?” She responds as she scurries through the New York hustle and bustle, Park Ave Subway Exit.
“Ding. Ding. Ping.”
“My gosh, will my phone leave me the fuck alone.” Frantically, she swipes up and presses the moon symbol, “Do not disturb.”
Weaving in and out of the clueless crowd, she nudges her way to the entrance of the New York City Radio Head for her book talk debut. Norah lived a constant “spur of the moment” life. Since she was young, her parents were nomads. Alaska one month, Oregon the next, heck! Let’s try Vietnam. The sporadic moments of change were no stranger to Norah.
“Caller one, who do we have here?”
“Hi…um, yes. Where do you get your inspiration from? This story you have written is quite dark, gloomy, and chaotic.”
“Great question, caller one!” “Aside from Poe always throwing me for a crazy whirlwind, I used to get night terrors as a child. I would write down the dreams as a mode of therapy. I discovered my journal three years ago and ran with it.”
“Ah, I see.” “And who is this no name stalker?” “Who was he inspired by?”
Norah felt a sudden knot in her stomach. She tightened her hands into a fist, took a gulp, and breathed, “caller one, do I know you?”
Click. The caller dropped the call.
Norah pulled out her phone and immediately checked the phone number of the text message from earlier in the day.
UNKNOWN ID.
“Shit.”
