Drabble 138 – Hemeralopia


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In my first newsletter, I talked about voice, and how I never feel like I’ve really found mine. Or if I have found it, how it doesn’t satisfy me. I envy writer of lyrical prose, the kind of writers whose words get stuck in your head like music. The ones who play with sounds and meaning to craft sentences that are works of art individually, but also parts of a larger tapestry.

Since the only way to get better at something is to practice at it, that’s what I’m doing. It might not be to my incredibly high standards for myself (nothing ever is), but it certainly won’t be if I don’t attempt it.

Anyway, here’s a drabble.


(n.) from Greek ημέρα, “day”, and αλαός, “blindness”

Poor daytime vision.

The oil in the lamps has burned out, the candles shrunken to mere stumps. The only light she sees, the moon through the windows, catches in her dress and follows her through the hall until it, too, is devoured by shadow.

The shutters curtain have been drawn as long a she can remember, but the fabric is gauzy enough that she must still retreat to the darkest part of the manor to avoid the sun. Even a sliver burns her eyes as surely as if she were to stare directly into it. She thrives in the dark, blossoming like jasmine.

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