picked cleanI grieve in three shades: gray, black, and in that pinkish hue you find on the underbelly of a dead fish. I walk through cemeteries and the gravestones pour out their hearts to me, and I am glad to have umbrella when the pale-faced sky opens all the faucets in the house at once. I grieve inside of acoustic-guitar strings. Its quiet there, and the warm hum reminds me of the glowing ember gnawing its way out of me from right behind my lungs, puncturing them to let out every breath I took from the crisp winter air that nips my face, licks me right on the nose, bathes my face in icy feather down.I go to the art store to look through empty frames, because your face is in every one, and the gray in me turns to black. And I am the pebbles on the bottom of the river, slippery, holding up the water, and I am below the pebbles. I am the dirt. I am grimy and there is grit in my face, my mouth, my lungs, and I know what with
A Beginning - 80 wordsDont you dare dump that bucket of mud on me, Thomas Hassall. Missy crossed her little arms over her new pink dress. My momma just got me this dress and she'll have your hide if you get even so much as one drop of that filth on me."Thomas glanced over at the other boys. Their eyes were identical shades of eager. Picturing Outlaw Frank from the wild west TV show in his minds eye, Thomas grinned. "Lady Rose," he said, invoking the script from last week's episode, "Prepare to meet your doom!"
CombustionHarper did not want to get on the train, as it belched acrid smoke, or look at the conductor, a dark blue rubber ball of a man, standing next to the door with his ugly little mustache. More than that, Harper did not want to be on the run. He hated having to look over his shoulder as he walked down cobblestone streets, hated waking up in the middle of the night at a sound, and hated being suspicious of every tailor, baker, or post office clerk he saw. He hated having to act normal, like everything was okay, when it was most certainly not. He did not want to get on the train. But, he was on the run. So he did. - -Catherine had been riding on the train for a long time--three days to be precise. Shed gotten off only to sleep. There was something infuriating about that, like seeing the same floral pattern on the carpet in every coach, and the fact that the Conductor now kn
SurvivalJoans husband was supposed to be dead. But here he was, standing before her.Her insides churned, charged like the ocean--surging against the sides of her stomach. Her thoughts were like black clouds and he was a lightening bolt.She swayed on her feet, then took a deep breath and said, I mourned for you. I let you go. Youre dead.Joan, no, Im not-- he reached for her arm.D-dont. Dont touch me, she pulled away, squeezing her eyes closed, and shuddered.I survived for you, Joan. His face smudged over with anger like coal brushed on a miner's face. He shouted, I survived in that hellish place for you! He whispered, For you.Unsteadily, Joan spoke. I moved on, I loved again. I remarried. We bought a house. We have a son. I have obliga
InvisibleThe boat moves slowly across the water, which barely responds to the intrusion. The movement is as subtle as a knife through the softest cake. Overhead, the blue sky burns, painted with sweeping swirls of white; clouds like delicate scarves ripple across the sky. She sits with her open umbrella over her shoulder, looking away from him. His white cotton shirt sleeves are rolled up and his arms flex, steady, as he pushes and pulls the oar. Two black suspenders hold up his coarse tan pants. Two firmly planted boots anchor him to the boats bottom.The artist feels sorry for them as he paints her distracted, almost melancholy face. The man clearly loves her--the artist sees it etched into every inch of his body language. He is rowing his love song, but alas, she does not hear.