Liminal Spaces

Weekly Scribblings #67: Liminal Space 

The prompt:  So for today's prompt, I'd like you to dive into the idea of liminal space. You don't need to use the words "liminal space" anywhere in your piece, but the idea of liminal space should be clearly conveyed.

I didn't know there was a word for those places/conditions that invoke the uncomfortable feeling that something's wrong, someone's disappeared, perhaps even yourself.  The in-between places, spaces, ages.  Feeling them is easier than defining the words, liminal space. Many definitions include the feeling one gets in empty elevators, schools when there are no children present, being alone in the parking lot...  I had to fly last year early in the pandemic.  I was the only person walking to the gate (the gate to my city airport is always the very last in the terminal), all the shops and many gates were closed. No one was waiting anywhere.  No one.  No employees in sight. Once at my gate I was alone for quite some time.  The feeling I had must be what liminal space is about. I began to doubt I was even supposed to be there at all.  I began to worry for my safety, alone in an "abandoned" airport.

So...  with the new knowledge that these places, these conditions, these feelings, had a name, I faced the willies the idea of them gave me and dove into it!  I'm not sure they all quite "clearly convey(ed)" the idea, but I will say, writing them did lead to the uncomfortable feelings!

These first two are connected.   I've asked myself the question posed in Lone Driver.

Last One Left

Leaving late, the last to go,

my car waits in the parking lot

alone, where I left it,

under a buzzing and flickering lamppost.

I have the eerie feeling

the others have transported

onto alien ships,

or raptured,

while I worked overtime.

 

Lone Driver

Driving south,

the only other vehicles go north.

I wonder,

are they leaving an apocalypse

I know nothing about?

 

Corridors

When the corridors are empty

and my footsteps echo down the halls,

I hear the voices of the students,

laughing, late for class,

as the tardy bell rings. 

Perhaps one of them is me.

 

 

The Closed Door

If we open this door

we’ll know what’s

on the other side.

Of course, if we don’t,

we won’t.

Like that cat

in the box,

dead or alive.

We won’t know until

we look.

 

(Although,

wait too long,

I guarantee you,

we’ll find

a dead cat.)

 

What is a Widow?

What am I?

Neither daughter

Nor wife

Anymore

No longer a Miss

Nor a Mrs

Does that make me a nobody?

A woman invisible? 

 

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