Microfiction: Monsters

My mother told me there was no monster under the bed. I didn’t believe her then. I pulled the sheets over my face each night, leaving only my eyes exposed so I would be prepared when it crawled out.

Eventually I grew older and moved out of that room, into the real world. I graduated from high school, chose a major, entered the workforce and explored the rotating doors of love.

None of it was easy. My heart was broken over and over, and at times I didn’t know whether I was fighting my adversaries or my own self.

I remembered that bedroom from my childhood with fondness. And I realized that my mother had been right. The monster was never under my bed. It was prowling the streets, waiting for me.

 

Microfiction: The Realness of Things

Sometimes I wonder about the realness of things. Am I real? Are you real? Am I as real as you? Are you as real as me?

I feel the cold of rain as it hits my skin, and hear the whispers of trees as they send shivers my way. And surely this means that I’m a real girl.

But dream rain is just as cold, and dream trees whisper too. In the morning they are nothing but ghosts.

One day I, too, will be a ghost.

Then perhaps I am nothing but a dream.