I think we can all agree that 2017 being over is a blessing, right?
I’ve had a weird year. I suspect we all have. 2017 has been an absolute roller coaster of elation and despair. I’m more politically engaged than I’ve ever been, which is undoubtedly a good thing. I wrote a book. I spent much of this year afraid for how much longer I could keep it up, because dread creeps into everything. I lost some things that were very important to me, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get them back. I’m not sure that I should.
I don’t know that 2018 is going to be better. I wish I could say with certainty that it will be, but I just don’t know. It could be worse. We’ll keep fighting, no matter how tired and hopeless we feel. We have to.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Old English niht, for night, + Old English tid, for portion of time
Nighttime, or a flood tide that occurs at night.
Every year, the shore is a little smaller. The sea laps at the coast, crumbling rocks to grit between its teeth, swallowing sand as it makes its way into town. It happens so slowly that few notice; it’s natural, anyway, and nothing to worry about.
But the noises that come along with it, the slurps, the screeches, the grating skrtch skrtch skrtch—those are worrisome. They grow louder every year, and the shapes beneath the water take form, rising closer to the surface. The townsfolk hear them at night, their songs echoing in the dark. They can almost understand them.