Shalandrassil's Literatures

New Year's was oddly quiet, for a city like Gotham...

A shortstory I subtweeted.

Jason asks Lena for a dance at a WE gala.

You're at a beach in Florida. Not a care in the world.

Oyana comes home.

An empty chair. Smooth, wooden floors. Books, lining the shelves. They fill the air with an earthy, homey smell.

From here I can watch the sentinels pass on their patrols by the window as I sit on the floor, a book held up to my face, several books strewn around my sides like a wall, guarding me from any other person that might be in the room. I wasn't really reading. These books held no interest for me. They are merely stories of someone saving something. Saving themselves, their people, their kingdoms. A fable, a bedtime story for some hopeful child, and I am no child. I am not able to save anything, anyone, myself. I am. Unsaveable.