by Shaun Bibo

 

Drip… Drip

The dripping would drive another person mad.

Drip… Drip

Not me. I’ve been here for three days. Hanging.

Drip… Drip

It came from the painting. The ocean. The waves. A lighthouse. Peace.

Drip… Drip

It emerged from the water. Slowly. Over days. Weeks. It consumed the lighthouse.

Drip… Drip

More tentacles than body. It broke free.

Drip… Drip

I can’t see it. Not really. It moves… sporadically. Through time. Through space.

Drip… Drip

It doesn’t belong here. It’s always hungry. Soon, the bucket below me will be full. I will be empty.

Drip… Drip

Then it will eat.

Shaun Bibo

Business Analyst by day, writer by night, weekend, lunch breaks, or whenever time allows. Father of two, so less time than ever, but in the best possible way. Surviving the cold Minnesota winters to embrace the magnificent summers.