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.
She desperately wanted to make different decisions. She was smart enough to know that the real treasure lies beyond superficial trappings but not strong enough to avoid the trap.
The panic comes unbidden, triggered by random things: lightbulbs flickering, a stalling engine, the memory of a dream no longer achievable. It grabs at my chest with a cold hum then creeps outward. Its icy hands squeeze my lungs, quicken my breath. It drains the body of all soft things, empties the bone of marrow, … Continue reading an ode to forgetting
Virgil and Sharon Smith measure their day by television programming. As they tell guests during commercial breaks, "...two o'clock is Bonzai Gunslingers. Then at three we watch Entitled Rich 1950's Girl Pseudodrama. After that is Guess the Price of This Crap..." From morning to night their day is jam-packed. Right now, it's 8:23 on Wednesday … Continue reading banana bread, anyone?
She stares at a bright sliver of green on the other side of the narrow forest opening. It is a lure beckoning through trees that loom around her like a formation of hovering mothers and nervous lovers pressing in on her, like uptight seaweed filtering out the sun. She is a hungry fish trying to … Continue reading standing still
I am eight years old in rumpled shorts and t-shirt meandering through an urban cavern of white painted ceiling and walls. False lights fail to mimic the sun in that space full of wood and animals. The salesmen are tigers in suits, smiling, gesturing. The furniture lay scattered about the floor: fallen, dead things polished … Continue reading a new dining room table