At the end of a frazzled rope hung a man, daggling by a few blistered fingers and a little hope. He looked down, staring into the black abyss below, wondering if it would hurt, and if there was a bottom. Only a half an inch, he slipped, but it felt like forever in an instant. He breathed again. In short, quick bursts, as sweat beaded his brow.
The rope wiggles a little and looking up he sees her, knife in hand, slowly sawing and smiling. I know you said you loved me, but I thought I told you good bye.
Peace in SuspenseNo one knew what to expect. Our garage was filled with water bottles and assorted freeze-dried foods. Powdered milk and cereal bars fit for astronauts. We had stocked up enough blankets for an army of Eskimos and had at least six fire extinguishers spread in various rooms of the house, locked and loaded and read to go. Up and down the street, every window was shut and locked, curtains drawn. 9-1-1 had been programmed as a speed dial, as if the emergency crew would be of any extra help.Peace in Suspense6 years ago in Science Fiction
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The end could be coming.
Then again, it might not be. We could be spending hundreds of dollars on a upgraded survival kit for nothing. There are those who keep living their lives, not minding the horrible possibilities and news bulletins, smirking at the paranoid population. But then again, why be a part of the ignorance?
The California winter was revealing itself. The sun was already setting, the sky a dusty orange, and the clock had just rung six. There was a cool breeze blowing around the loose leaves
Open Mic Night at the Jazz BarThere is a reverent hush down in The Jazz Bar for a quiet rendition of we are nowhere, and its now. It seems, for three minutes, that this could almost be true, until the house lights come up and the compere returns and all is forgotten in a swig of red wine.Open Mic Night at the Jazz Bar6 years ago in General
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Then He climbs onto the stage, with a borrowed guitar. She twists in her seat and says they used to be together, until the previous Thursday, but the rest is lost in the cocktail of voices, laughter and clink of ice on glass.
With little introduction, his song begins. An original, he says, an angry one to start with. Thick with accusation, his deep sandpaper voice tells a recent lover to go on and run away, and with every chorus she twists a rope of hair tighter and tighter. Her eyes at first twitch across the room but then stare, resolute, as he reaches his crescendo; singing of how he wont miss her Sunday nights, her politics, her clever words or her party dress,
Up in the AirDown the street fromUp in the Air4 years ago in Free Verse
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the house where
my friend John used to undercook the chicken
is where they filed my grandparents.
Can't say buried,
they aren't in the ground, but
I'd say twenty feet up in the air
slid into a
but I call it a filing cabinet.
They aren't really in there anyway, they
can't smell the flowers lined up
next to the benches
where I'm sitting
Just shells, inside shelves,
boxes of things left behind.
They were her hands once,
that held the spoon
that put chocoate ice cream in a dish,
or flipped the bacon while the radio played
in a morning-golden kitchen.
Those were his lips, always split
in his wide-open grin,
or pursed around the meandering notes of his whistle
announcing his visit
as he ambled up our driveway.
They are stacked now, like the boxes of slides
and books of photos,
piled atop one another.
In each one, they smile at us
arm in arm
with a thousand places behind them.
Row upon row, like the books in the shelves