31 Oct

They said that I was too sensitive, thin-skinned, highly strung. Weak was the implication. Too weak to do what I wanted, to follow the career path that was my heart’s desire. I tried not to listen, but the words fed into my soul.

I lost myself in other words, words that took me to other worlds, where I could fight for the freedom of Narnia, solve mysteries with Nancy Drew, explore jungles and far off planets. I stacked the books around me, building a wall to hide behind. I slipped my little pieces of paper in place of mortar, like the faithful at the Wailing Wall.

A wall became a tower, then the tower became a fortress. I worked in a library, built my own at home, added more protection. For I am weak. Like Wilbur, I am the runt of the litter with nothing to commend me.

Cannonballs blasted at my castle, breaching the defences, arrows slipped through cracks, and spears rained over the ramparts. From within I could feel the forces that rocked the very foundations. I had two choices: to hide in a corner, make myself small, close my eyes and let my mind go into the books, never to return; or to come out fighting my foes: fists clenched, armour on, and with a strengthen roar that would silence the world.

This piece was inspired by the writing prompt for 23rd of Oct at Creative Writing Ink


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