A Dust of SnowSnow was the great purification. All of the dark places of the land dotted with coated trees were blanketed by mother snows cold hand. The earth was softer in winter, in white. It was sleeping soundly beneath the coverlets where only wolves, rabbits and deer went tuttering by leaving their trails and magic.A Dust of Snow11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The girl’s cheeks had long turned chill-burnt red, polished and bright as two crisp autumn apples. They burned in the pale of her skin in the moonlight. In some other time, her lips as red as hearts and her hair as dark as raven’s wings might have stirred a poem. But the eerie mingling of fear and desire glass coating her brown eyes made her seem a mad, mad straw creature than a beauty.
The snow was deep and it bit to the knee, sometimes keeping her stuck in place. Frostbite tingled, a small sting at first and now a sharp bite in her feet; fingers. Her mittens had been swiped by a lashing pine, a boot kept by unforgiving drift. Her dress cold and wet.
Ain't No Sunshine - FlashFicAin't No Sunshine - FlashFic3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
For fifteen years the song of his heart had permanently looped after Jessica died. Ain't no sunshine when she's gone. It's not warm when she's away. He'd hear it start in his head in the morning when he sat down for breakfast. Across from him was her plate just as she'd left it that morning. Oh, I don't have time, Rupert, she'd said. I've got to run to the store and then Mary Anne's. And he'd play the same scene in his head. A kiss good-bye to her cheek, a murmuring of love and the click of the door shut on her way out.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone-- that would always bring up all the other memories of course. Ones which he wished would remain settled on the bottom, like silt in the ocean.
He'd finish his breakfast, clean the table, dust off her plate, wash the dishes and grab his coat. He'd walk to the garage and open it, find her bike and wheel it out. It didn't matter if it was typical Florida sunshine, meltingly-hot, or typical monstr
I can't write a poem todayI couldn't possibly write a poem today.I can't write a poem today3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm all out of words. They rebelled, you see.
Picked up the last description I had for a sword,
cut through all of my cliche's about beautiful hair and,
love and life and sweet things that are supposed to move people.
They scissor-legged straight through all hopes of writing an epic,
dented a knights armor with a stiff letter R,
then ran into a Princess and stole her tiara.
After, they had a little party with a few mad hatters I haven't even written about,
wearing the tiara and wielding a horrible haiku I never meant to let the light of day touch.
So I couldn't possibly write a poem today.
I've got to duel the letter T,
to get back a princess,
to find where they put that damn haiku,
and to save the letter R.
Because of You"Are you all right?" He asked, I could hear the worry. "Do you need anything?" I didn't need to open my eyes to know that he was probably standing there, brows wrinkling suddenly and a small frown of concern.Because of You2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"M-hmmm", I answered the first. "M-m," I hummed for the second, shaking my head. I could smell themthey were bright, sunshine, daisies of love and leaves of laughter. In comparison to the no-smell of hospital sheets, the chill of sterilized things, they stood out in the room like fire in the rain.
"I brought you"
"Flowers," I said, opening my eyes. Now a days, I can see shapes sometimes. If I tip my head up and a bit to the right. If I look at things askance, I can still pick out shapes. I can't see his face anymore but I know his shape. It's imprinted in the bed of my mind and in my heart. And even though I can't see his face, I remember the way his eyes glitter-glowed with a smile at seeing me.
"How did you know?" He seemed mor
At Both EndsThe hallway is always dark in the middle. There are no windows in this part of the house and she usually doesn't mind it. She can pass through chasing chubby legs that run and she can complain while carrying laundry baskets or sighing quietly about the trail of socks and underwear. Left by children who shed their clothes with the abandon adults pretend to no longer understand.At Both Ends2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Those are good days.
Then there are bad days.
Today she stops in the middle where there aren't any windows and finds herself unable to breathe. Behind her light shines, in front of her light shines.
Behind her she swears she heard her mother sigh. The exactly same way she did after her own children--the way she did following her and picking up after her.
Before her she hears the sound of her children playing.
But in the middle of the hallway there isn't any light and the walls are covered in pictures she can't bare to look at right now.
She swallows, a dry-heart-click of loss that sticks in the back of her throat
Squeak of a ghostThere is a rocking chair.Squeak of a ghost9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a girl in her mother's lap.
The chair sways under a lamp because lamps are the golden halo-gate to sacred things:
soft ringlets of hair, blue eyes.
A daughter day dreams--waves on a beach, being carried, the motion of back and forth.
She lets her eyes close.
When she opens them the lamp and it's light are gone.
She stands cold by the chair that is empty but rocking.
Back and forth it squeaks like a child,
comforting only ghosts.