Auntie Em, Uncle Henry
It's a twister!
It's a twister!
A dark whirlwind of vessels
recognized as a dream
A phantom vision of heros and villains
and a heap of drama
we have no need for
Just Far Enoughjust far enough awayJust Far Enough by prettyflour
the space between us lingers
too far above to feel
the rain misting
leaving my body moist
maybe just close enough
though I can not touch you
I am not afraid
|From my Featured Gallery!|
BelligerentDrunken sparks, blood-thirsty.
And I can no longer see in singular colors. Everything is a blurred swoon, rippled motion. Ghosts taking shape in the faces of my friends. My words come out like play-doh, like an infant’s first garbled croon. An ineffective attempt at communication to say the least.
It is unlikely they will understand or comprehend or even stop to listen but still I spit and slather sideways sentences. Mouthing shouts of unintelligible inability. I grasp and ache for what I cannot say. I do not have the words.
The Marquise For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has never been very talkative. And yet, her thoughts were hardly idle and she always found a way to reach me, to say more than words could tell. I suppose that’s why when bedtime drew near, she would have infinite stories to tell me. Saving her words like pennies in a jar, she hoarded treasure troves of wisdom, excitement, and mystery in the form of fables and songs.
No matter how fast I grew up, no two bedtime stories sounded the same. Playful stories of young animals gave way to legends of magic, of beautiful damsels and errant men, and of robbers and sorcerers as I grew older. One night as we sat together by the hearth of our home, she told me a story she had been told as a child. Like any rite of passage, it had to happen whether I liked it or not. I was no longer a little girl and it was time for me to face a world that wasn't so gentle.
Her last tale was the scariest one yet. That
Locket SirensIf there's something I'm not supposed to be doing, I've forgotten. The locket rests, heavy and cold, on my palm. I shiver, gooseflesh prickling my bare arms as the wind shifts course. In a frenzied game of tag, the curls I slaved over this morning dance and flatten across my face and I squint, trying to see through the thick locks. The locket hums again, haunted, and grows colder still. Frowning, I flip my palm upside down, trying to rid it of metal. The chain binds my fingers closed. The locket doesn't budge, but hangs instead from the gap between my life and heart lines. A pain, like pinching and releasing the skin, pricks across the flexes of my hand.
"You can't let it go now, Lees," Koto whispers beside me, his chrome-tinted eyes bulging and riveted to the necklace entangling me. There's a sheen to his lips I've never seen before; as I watch, his tongue sweeps across them again. A nervous habit.
Despite myself, I chuckle--a clipped, haughty sound that falls from behind my teeth lik
Death BeadsThe lights were bright and she closed her eyes. A loud crashing noise stung her ears. The sound vibrated her ear drum and was almost deafening.
Her eyes fluttered for a moment. She was standing though she didn’t know for how long. A light with no obvious source filled the room and she shied away; her eyes forced to dilate. Her senses were accosted from all sides and she wanted nothing more than to crumble to the ground.
It was harrowing, to say the least.
Light reflected off the four white walls. They were perfect and clean; no dust or distasteful nicks to speak of. Along the right wall was a large, metallic table indented with four questionable dump bins. Was she in a buffet line?
Her blurry vision cleared and she could see just to her left a small, metal stand on wheels. In one tray was a DVD player kept in good condition with title-less, black DVD cases stacked along its sides. On top of the stand was a 32” flat-screen TV. Its cord was wrapped into a circle and pl
When Summer EndsThere was a place in the world where all flotsam eventually drifted to. All the jewel-studded goblets of the royal ships, the colorful plumage of ladies’ hats; the torn flags attached to planks of wood, all the way to spices and tea and the carefully crafted fashion dolls that seemed a bit too real for personal comfort. One way or another, the wind would blow, the waves would dance, and the planet would turn so that all nature’s might would send the floating junk to a cluster of islands in the southern seas.
It was after a terrifying storm had raged in the north; the islands were waiting for their usual haul, and were beginning to see the glints of rum bottles, when a lump of cloth clinging to driftwood washed ashore.
After stirring a few times, the lump stood.
He was a man of advanced years, with eyes shining fiercely like a hawk’s. His hair and scraggly nest of beard carried bits of ocean that forever rid them of their natural color. By his rude demeanor he might ha
Blackout Days (bit 1) I remember the Blackout Days, when I was young and machines thrummed. Dark days, yes, but there was the tiniest streak of light on the horizon called hope. Baseball players wore black uniforms; it was easier to see them against the floodlights. We didn’t have pets; anything was considered fair game for the table in those lean times. But we kept the machines running, and focused on that strip of light on the horizon.
Looking back now after so many years, it’s amazing that we took it all in stride. But it was just the way things were. I was twelve when I began work in the factory, my schooling done. But I was proud; I was doing something important. I was feeding the machines, making sure they never stopped. I didn’t really know at the time what might happen if they stopped, but I knew it was something bad. It was every citizen’s duty to contribute, to keep those machines working. I was glad to do it, even though my hearing is diminished now from the no
It's Burning Down Anyway"You shouldn't play with matches," she said. "You'll hurt yourself."
I lit a cigarette - with a lighter - and remembered Annie Venter telling me that in the eighth grade as I lit matches behind the school. I had stared at her and lit the whole matchbook on fire, and then I had dropped it in the grass. She made me stomp it out.
I stood on the porch of my apartment, listening to the rain and staring out at the fog and the clouds and thinking that somewhere out there, Annie Venter was probably sleeping, not thinking about the time she told some stupid kid not to play with matches. I flicked the lighter on and off a few times to see if it would feel the same way the matches had all those years ago, but it didn't.
The smoke curled above me in the cold air, a visible metaphor for addiction as it hung off me. Everything in my life smelled like that anymore: like ashes.
I dropped the cigarette on the deck and I stared at the small red ember, letting it burn and smoke, letting it become