Chelsea Wallace

Stories from Chelsea Wallace

Friday, January 17th, 2014

The wooden walls of the small shotgun house did nothing to alleviate the sharp wind of that January night. Nor did they hold out the noises that surrounded him through the darkness: tiny clawed feet scurrying across the slats, groaning mufflers on decades-old trucks passing by outside, voices so loud they stayed audible from down the road. They all passed through the rotted and brittle wood like a song.

The man sighed in the darkness, sitting up from the makeshift mattress of leaves and discarded blankets stashed from donation centers along his migration. He leaned against the rough wooden boards, his eyes closed and deep breaths drawn in through his nostrils and released slowly through his lips.

Thursday, December 6th, 2012

I           Brother

Looking at words. Reading them.

Sometimes, I cannot bear to do it.

The work of putting everything

Where it should go - the work that

Should be a second nature,

That should be instinctive, effortless -

Burns me and weighs me down.

I hate the letters that dance around

And look in mirrors, that jitter and

Trade places.

I stare at the black and white page

And I am Tantalus,

The understanding just beyond

My fingertips.