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Nicolas P. Evans is an ambitious 17-year-old who fell in love with writing via interests in theatre. Writing, now, poetry, short stories, a novel and a musical, he plans to spend his upcoming years in college perfecting and honing his craft.

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Hey all! Please, please, please feel free to comment and suggest edits. I am, like most of you, writing so that someone can read; let me know, as a fellow writer and audience member, what you would like to see more of or what you think I can do better. I will be sure to return the favor (if you would like). Thank you! Can't wait to read from you.

More Crumbs for the Scurrier

December 1, 2019


    A strange feeling scurries across the ground, and disappears into some out-of-sight blackness buried deep between the gaps of failing woodwork. I hear its patter quick and frantic -- fleeting. I hear it nibbling on some crumbs behind the walls.
    Truthfully, I’d known it to be there for quite some time now; and I’d be dishonest in saying that I hadn’t been a little more careless in my actions as of late, as to, perhaps, produce a few more snacks for the Scurrier to run away with when I wasn’t looking -- back into that darkness just there: behind the walls. And if I were to continue in my dishonesty, I’d tell you that I didn’t sort of enjoy its subtle presence, its phantom scatterings across the floor, its tracelessness. And I’d tell you that I wasn’t in love with a girl.
    Dare I describe the antecedent: Well, she was beautiful, -- but not in that shallow, direct way sunsets or starglow can be -- no; she was unique in her beauty in that she possessed in her this incredible yet unexplainable ability to melt away the world around her. It was when all was fully thawed into the ground, nothing but puddles of what once stood as glacier and now lay humbled and small in their watery husks, that you had a clear view of her true radiance: off the reflections of all that she’d melted. And in that moment, her aura would glow unscathed, a jewel in a dim-lighted room, a red-silken dress in a black-and-white movie -- the corpse in the casket.
    At times I couldn’t tell if it was her or the puddles I fell so deeply in love with. Of course, I had ultimately decided it to be her. But I hated that about me -- that horribly innate human power of feeling -- because it meant I could feel every part of her beauty. Even the material lacking thereof. Well, that, and the crumbs emotion always leaves behind it. Another perk of keeping the Scurrier, I suppose.
    It’d been years since she had passed by inverted means of her own essence, melting slowly away by some internal withering vaguely phasing in and out but always returning, nevertheless, only to grow exponentially more. She called it life. I called it shitty. They called it cancer -- and untreatable at that. She had died only two months later. Apparently, it is quite difficult to escape your own blood.
    I dropped another crumb to be stolen away into the darkness. I listened for those tiny feet to come swiftly in and take it away; and they did, scuttering madly at the dry-wooded flooring. This piece was bigger. Partly because it was the whole thing. I waited as it finished nibbling from behind the walls. from behind the walls.
Walking back up to my room, I was realizing just how interesting it is that shadows can still cast themselves in the dark, when all of the sudden I heard those chasing footsteps at close distance, already hungry for more crumbs I didn’t yet have to give. The whole house was wooden; it made for a very noisy trek, a kind of unnatural radar of sorts for my shadow-friend -- the stairs especially. They creaked the loudest, great dissonant symphonies of crescendoing sound that built anticlimactically to a thick-boarded second floor where the Scurrier often thwarts all venture. This higher level holds only my room and one bathroom. Less places to hide, I would guess.
    I went up with objective only to sleep, but my subconscious had different intentions. Dreams, those fancy-damned things, had apparently fallen just as infatuated with her as I -- except more posthumously, as if she was a great work of literature -- and, whether it be out of cruelty or blank miscellaneous, had decided, with quite poignancy and frequency, to torture me with those things they so viciously call Memory:
    There she lay, supinely, her blue eyes streaks of reflected moonlight, her hair the river on which reflections wed themselves to the aqueous. Her body conflates in itself to the sheets -- and suddenly the world is thrown into white as her figure distills in the absence of color: faint, ghastly. The Scurrier nibbles. And from behind that thin-woven sheet, she remains, her features consumed by that infinite whiteness. And then she’s but puddle, a puddle of tears on the hard-wooden floor. And, again, I can’t sleep.
    I climb out of bed, the floor curt on my feet. The Scurrier flees. It missed a few this time; I step over them. “It’ll get them eventually,” I say to no one.
    It listens as I drearily tread that wearied path of discorded song, reversing my ascension back into the main part of the house ironically deemed: living-room. That stinging haze of static noise, much like the sounds of an old TV starting up, plagued my mind. I sat down on the sofa; and, in looking around at the house in which I reside, so stubbornly wooden and eroded, I begin to draw comparisons between that old thing and me: Both groan. Both creak. And both have lost something they once held dearly inside of them. The only difference I can see is that one is still thinks it’s alive. I know it’s dead, though; no matter how animate this house may be, I know it's nothing but ramshackle wood and ugly wallpaper.
    Breezes waft through the house as if air through a coarse-destroyed larynx, or like a ghost walking solemnly up the stairs, a vacant thought drifting up to a vacant mind. It sounds faintly of a sad-weighted, half-assed cry for help, or a pitiful excuse for a breath.
    And the comparisons become cyclical.
    The Scurrier watches as I sit, inactive; dropping crumbs left and right, I decompose. It shows itself to me this time. I’m no longer a threat, I guess. I watch as it nibbles at the flesh on the floor.
    Part of me is scared. And part of me isn’t. I think I’m afraid, not of death, but perhaps that, when my body is no more, all that would remain is some spirit and that the memories of Her would evaporate into the abyss. And, truly, all that would remain is some Scurrier there, nibbling, nibbling, until nothing is left. until nothing is left.
    Hope would be a rat.


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  • December 1, 2019 - 2:01pm (Now Viewing)

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