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list of things that are green"What color are your eyes?""What? They're green--you're looking right at them.""I'm looking into them," she corrects, shifting on his chest. "And they are not green. Green is grass. Green is plants, forests. Frogs. Olives. Your eyes aren't any of those.""Oh really.""Yes, in fact, they have been driving me mad since I first saw them.""That's quite a long time," he says, drawing his arms around her to bring her closer.She pulls back to so she can still look. "They're not green."They half-close with his amusement. "You, my dear," he says, touching her nose, "are stubborn." He smoothes back strands of her hair, fingers wandering to her forehead and tracing the wrinkles, down her slanted eyebrows. "Cucumber, maybe."He guffaws. "Cucumber?""Yes. The little specks on cucumber skin, they're like all those little specks in your eyes.""Little sp
the translucenceAn architect, his designs become delicate studies in insecurity, self-criticism; his specialty is the full sense of the word awkward.She believes. Her belief is the strongest thing he has ever seen. Her belief can hold up entire skyscrapers; can hold up entire hearts and minds. The weight must crush her, he thinks, but the design is sound, and her belief is strong. Where is her refuge? he wants to know. Where is her respite, a place of her own?"Here," she tells him, placing a hand on his chest, over-top the door."But that's where I keep--""Yes," she says."But it's a mess in there, you couldn't possibly make it your refuge--"She laughs; it is golden and slips right under the door. "You should open it more often."
far off and closeWe're on the highway at 1 am and you're driving. There's no sound but the engine and that half-asleep, satisfied murmur coming from your body beside mine. I never knew the night had so many colors; casinos and 24-hour gas stations and a glow, high-up, a deep-rich blue like dark smoke mixed with paint powder. I can't tell if I'm asleep or if this is a waking dream. I can't decide if this is the closest the two of us have ever been, or if I only think that because of your tiny car.
Flash Fiction MonthJuly 3The firefly boy was born in December. He lit the dark house up like nothing had, or ever would again. His mother was radiant with love, his father a mirror, and they blazed in that cold winter night. But after a week, the firefly light was exhausted, and ready to go out. The snow melted around his grave.July 4Chin in hand, Madeline is practicing the art of becoming marble as she sits beside her window. The curtains seem determined to distract her, though, dancing and blowing in the wind, graceful and beautiful... words he used to describe her. Sharp-edged, the effect of waiting has yet to come; now there is nothing but ache, nothing in her eyes, nothing but the taste of the past in the back of her mouth. July 5I keep replaying the moments before the accident. First there's the road, stretching out ahead of me--unending and vast, headlights floating past like fairies, or magic; there's my
a little lessI spend three days after my birthday rooted to the bluff overlooking the harbor. On the fourth day, when I am busy picking out shapes in the clouds, the ship arrives and I dont even notice till its right there, docking. Im on my feet and leaping through the tall grass in moments; I have no shadow in the blue-gray November morning. The sky is the color of my fathers eyes, and the color of the sea.Theres a crowd--I shouldve been early enough to avoid them--but Im small and I push through easily enough.Nick! I shout to a crew member I recognize. Hey, Drake, buddy!Hows it? I ask, scanning the ship, which is by now crawling with the crew.Excellent, mate! Now were in port therell be beer, good food
women--Nicholas! You louse, shut yer mouth, hollers another sailor I know, John. He
Wordspill: The SeaAs a child, Melony lived in a hospital. It was both one of her favorite and least favorite times. She could've done without the needles, but the white walls and the sheets gave her ideas about feathers, and she was convinced that there were seagulls living in the building. She once even warned a neighbor that his goldfish might disappear one evening. The doctors moved him down the hall.The first time Melony heard a piano, she thought it was a waterfall. Up close, rolling ivory fascinated her; the weight of the music felt perfect, like the pressure of the ocean--heavy, but also light. When her brother played his baby grand, she loved nothing more than to lay on top of it.Melony never understood her apartment. The balcony overlooked a freeway, but she was always convinced the cars were waves and the smog was sea mist. When she talked about the beautiful view, her relatives smiled and reminded her to take her p
suitcaseWhenever anybody says the word "suitcase," she always gets the same images in her head; of her grandfather's attic, with the circle window on one end that never let in enough light to make it worth mentioning, the little brass lamp with the velvet green shade, the countless old radios piled up in stacks against the slanting roof, and the battered cardboard boxes, many with strange indentations in the sides.Then her mind shuffles in another round of images, juxtaposing velvet green with her grandfather's wrinkles, his eyeglasses, and the woolen vests she could always bury her head in, as he sat in his maroon armchair. Behind his head are shelves and shelves, his library, and there is a door squeezed in there somewhere. With another shuffle, time leaps, days rolling past like a calendar flip-book; she sees him standing on the front porch, with his beret and cane and the suitcase he'd had since childhood sitting beside his leg, faithful as a dog; her parents with t