Mortality lives down the hallway from my room, between pillows and blankets and never ending pills. Where “when he gets better” reigns supreme. Where I choke on the words, stagnant, sticky, and ill-repeated in my thoughts. Sticky and ill-repeated, a child has jam on their hands and messes with the record player. It breaks, damned to replay the same verse over and over. That is my mind. Mortality appears on my bedpost when I wake up, before daytime has had the chance to mince my thoughts, bastardize them to choppy, orderly rows. Before the still moments, my mind is muddy, dripping, swirling with absolutely nothing and then The dying bird that won’t go away lifts its wings and crawls to my side haphazard and rude, piercing my shoulder till I remember Mortality Lives Forever. I choke on the thought, extract the damn birds claws from my shoulder, and go downstairs. The bird follows me, dragging crumpled wings behind trembling legs, crooning a mournful song about sunlight as my father closes the shades in the room upstairs down the hall. I start the dishes, lost in the sight of water flowing from the spout. Suddenly, through the rushing water, the ocean calls me, and just as fast Mortality tears me away from my reverie, grips me by the shoulders, and violently shakes me awake, thrusting a plate in my hand and yelling, “SCRUB!” I relent. For a moment, all is right in the world Then I catch sight of the bird, no song spilling out its beak, now only shivering in a cold I find myself unwilling to feel. I go upstairs, the dishes forgotten, remembering only to take my time, meandering down the hall, pausing at the two doors before the one at the end as if I’m considering entering. Then a thought: Mortality Lives Forever. I enter the room; he is fast asleep. In my father’s unopened eyes, I see Mortality. In the lines of his face, in the hours spent in bed, in the pill bottles and coffee cups on the nightstand, in the abrupt conversations we have about life. Mortality lives in my ears as I listen. Mortality, marching closer and closer. The half-dead bird stirs. I dodge its talons. - Anonymous If you want to write for the Crescent Crier, we would love to see you at one of our virtual meetings, which are every Wednesday at 1:30pm! To come to a meeting, fill out this form: https://forms.gle/TrQ5PqFcDqeE2yiB9, and we’ll send you a link ASAP. If you would like to submit a single article - or anything else like creative writing, an opinion, an art piece, photo or photo series, or something else entirely - then you can do that using this form: https://forms.gle/WAHSoWJuVwK3q5du6. If you want to contact us for any reason, you can email
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