She wasn't strong enough to manage the pain of every terrible thing she saw. She could only look at her feet while carnage ensued around her.
Every Christmas, the two sisters were each gifted a doll that had the coloring of the other. Beth, the elder sister, always coveted Maddie's doll. She yearned to have a doll with hair like the light of the sun and a dress the color of cotton candy. Instead, Beth received the Latina version of the … Continue reading the gift
When the nightingale sleeps, she wanders over a shifting desert, her bare feet in a moving embrace before, burning hot, the sand won't release. She falls, her face kissed by golden grains that she breathes in with forced affection until her lungs are full of love.
Her fingers worshipped each curve and hollow on the pilgrimage over his body, a holy meditation that delivered her to the divine.
His vanilla cream coating hid a core of sticky, sweet cherry filling, the round succulent globes pressed in on each other like earthy hearts of blood red juices to soak her shivering tongue in ecstasy.
Oh, whispering muse, thank you for your generous gifts of inspiration wrapped, curiously enough, in fragile bubbles that drift briefly and often imperceptibly toward my general direction. I'd be even more grateful if I could receive more of your messages. Could you possibly work on your aim? I'm never quite sure if the packages are … Continue reading oh whispering muse
She is a rich soil, plowed and seeded, then left to grow until harvest.
She studied the calendar. How many more years before her desire died down, she wondered. Before biology would loosen it grip on hormones that held her hostage. It was a taskmaster demanding carnal satisfaction, an appendage she neither wanted nor needed, a great distractor from dreams that mattered. It would never be satisfied, could never … Continue reading longing has overstayed its welcome
Here's a bit of nonsense narrative I wrote today. ************************* It was a non-day, the kind of day that didn't know what kind of day it was. The blame lay squarely with the weather which couldn't make up its mind so it tried resting somewhere in the middle. There were white cloud-like wisps hovering in … Continue reading even the squirrels were suicidal
She was like June, sunny with flowers to cover daffodil husks no one would see.