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Literature Text
Moonlight glistens on the glass-like lake surface. Crickets chirp rhythmically on the shore. Stars twinkle like tiny distant fires.
I slide a pile of partially-filled garbage bags over the side of my boat. They each make a gentle kersplash and drop to the bottom of the dark lake.
It sure is calm out here tonight.
I slide a pile of partially-filled garbage bags over the side of my boat. They each make a gentle kersplash and drop to the bottom of the dark lake.
It sure is calm out here tonight.
Literature
recovery crawl
beating
is kinder
than leaving.
sometimes I wish
your last words were
movements.
a hand against my cheek,
a fist to my chest,
an arm around my neck,
nails on my wrist.
the ache more real
and easy
to find.
every night I ache and
I point all over.
mostly my heart,
mostly my mind,
to the words stuck
that won’t loosen
that wedge themselves
in my teeth and fall out when
I’m drunk,
in his lap. he doesn’t need them, boy
that loves me until his
teeth rot, who says I don’t
deserve you who constricts
my waist with his hands and who
whispers I love you before
we fuck. he’s got courage like
the front lines of war
Literature
On preparing to never let go
Walking slowly down the hall, arms filled with the day's mail, we spoke of morbid things.
She wants to be reduced to ash and I want to know if I can keep her on my mantle.
She looks at me sideways with a curious face and forgets her footsteps.
It's a little bit morbid, she tells me, deciding it's time to continue shuffling along,
but I think the way I'm trying to picture her perfect urn is probably worse.
There's nothing that I can think of that suits her, though,
and I wonder if I even know her.
Do I scatter you somewhere? You can't visit scatter.
(I think good daughters plant guilt in the carpet pile to trip upon.)
But she doesn't trip,
Literature
coffee paint
i watch the coffee pot do cannonballs
through the air and bellyflop into the
kitchen wall-
glass licks the air in cartwheel spins
and coffee stains melt down the paint and boil
into the wood of the cutting board like
liquid sandpaper
and i think to myself-
this is better than a picasso.
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written for Flash Fiction Month, day 9. Read everyone's stories here - FFM Links - 9 July 2017
55 words
optional theme - calm
55 words
optional theme - calm
© 2017 - 2024 vigour-mortis
Comments9
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I love that we all immediately assume body parts! 
What's wrong with us all?
What's wrong with us all?