The Starving Activist is the sometimes-home for words. AR Neal (that’s me) finds them, cultivates them, and leaves them here. Enjoy.

Meet Me in Paradise

The note was cryptic: Meet me in Paradise. The handwritten note had appeared in her post box--no envelope, just a wrinkled scrap of paper; what was most troubling was the script in which it had been penned. There was only one person she knew who extended his lower-case "t" like that, but he was long dead. She touched the paper, handled it, sniffed it, turned it round for any clue but found nothing.She remembered: there was a stairway that had always intrigued him. They never ventured down its inviting path since there were danger signs and everything posted. She made her way there and finally took the plunge; she quietly padded down, down until she reached a most desolate yet lovely train station. How could such a magnificent place be abandoned? she thought to herself. "It's not completely abandoned," came a familiar voice from the shadows. She turned to the darkness and smiled. His lisp extended much like his "t's" and she was so glad to hear it again after so long.

19.1

Ah, such a lovely space. Click the image to visit the Scribe's Cave and add your take on the prompt.

Making Haste, For the Hour Draweth Nigh

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