By Ivanka Fear
Opened the door just a crack and it got out. Locked up for so long, it didn't linger to say goodbye. Padlock cut, chains loosened, it wriggled about a bit and shook them off. Unleashed, it took flight immediately leaving the confines of its prison behind hoping to spread its dark wings above the earth. I'd kept it selfishly to myself for years terrified it might burrow itself elsewhere, worried its venom would infect others, horrified it could sink its fangs into those I love. Buried well below the surface it dwelt content to wallow in my deep pit feeding on leftover junk steadily growing into such a monstrosity it threatened to rip me apart. As much as I doted on it, our time was coming to an end with the walls closing in suffocating, burying the two of us together. It didn't look behind as it left but simply dissipated into thin air while the light flooded in. Now it's gone and where it resided there's a hollow waiting to be filled. Door still open just a crack, in case. But for now, I'm home free, free at last.
About The Author
Ivanka Fear is a former teacher now pursuing her passion for writing. Her poems and short stories appear in Spadina Literary Review, Montreal Writes, Adelaide Literary, October Hill, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Sirens Call, The Literary Hatchet, Wellington Street Review, Aphelion, Muddy River Poetry Review, and elsewhere.
She has completed her fourth suspense novel and is looking for an agent. Ivanka resides in midwestern Ontario, Canada, with her family and cats. If you want to check out what else Ivanka is up to, you can go to her website, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.