Saturday's Storyteller: I've Never Left Here

by Belinda Roddie

In her cupped hands, there are either lily petals or white rose petals. I cannot tell from a distance.

It's too dark in this misty forest. Why is it always misty? The residents here play the drums
only when the shadows come. They do not dance. They plod. They march. They memorize their dirges.

Somewhere, the mouth of a yew opens, and a unicorn drinks from it, and you are ready
to sing:
I LIKE TO PRETEND THAT I AM ONE OF THEM.

Moss has always smelled like my mother's hair. She never dances. Her boots are just like what the shadows wear.

THIS IS NOT FATE,
she reminds me when the sun finally weaves its fingers through the canopy.
IT IS REPETITION.

This week's Storyteller was based off a poem I wrote while modeling image banks for my sophomore students. Credits for the photograph go to Tyler Flint.