The ceiling is low—metal rafters covered in stalactites of clay to hold in noise, pipes hanging in ridges cave-like and we are bats ready to burst at the first sign of light— there, in the corner, a stray wire curls down into open air and makes its home as a spiderweb. Two black couches sit near the door, crumbling-- their leather flecks across our skin whenever we sit, like dust. Everything here clings, the phone knitting webs of sound, those whispered calls our honored guests, ours to keep—like words and the ceiling and spiders. We make guests of the dictionary, of the red pen, of the truth, of lies. We hear stories like rain sliding down the walls and between the rafters, dripping on the old beige carpet, into our ears like breaths. Words flood us-- our veins are water pipes churning with white-capped quotes spat on bus stops and in alleyways, from behind dry lips and nervous eyes. We are alive. Our fingers dance like the truth, like lies. We weave stories like silk. We string them up along the rafters.
Cate Pitterle attends Cary Academy, where she is the editor-in-chief for both the literary magazine and the newspaper. She is also an executive editor at Polyphony LIT, an international litmag for high schoolers. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Teen Ink Print, Foliate Oak, Blue Marble Review, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing. She loves drinking too much coffee, eating too much chocolate, or any combination of the two.