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Literature
The silent watcher
Before I can remember, we were poor. When I was older we were never well- off, but we had enough money for the things we needed as long as we didn't buy too many things that we didn't. To my child's mind, our basic amenities - soap, toilet paper, toothpaste - were so easily and automatically replaced as to seem practically free, yet I had a deep understanding of which foods cost too much to eat very often and why our house was so cold in the winter.
There were also the relics from the time before I could recall, "before we had money," as my parents would say. One such relic was several large blocks of harsh, dirty-white soap, bought in bu
Literature
Spunion Gamble
October:
a shitstorm sober,
an overdose of
overdoses, disorder,
a postcard from
nowhere you want to be.
Believe me, the scenery
sucks, syringes sticking
up from heaps of ugly
dead leaves
twenty-somethings lining
sidewalks by the morgue
door, babies trading bodies for itty
bitty bottles of more
snow falling on wasted war-
torn faces glazes wide unblinking
eyes, white light erases
places, ages, life
flies away to where
I haven't got a clue but
I can't solve the problems
of insolvency by dissolving
decency- can you?
Literature
Right
Here's the bad news:
tomorrow
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
about ourselves.
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
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For FlashFictionLives' April 2016 prompt , where something is described in six words and the readers guess what it is.
© 2016 - 2024 vigour-mortis
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