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Literature Text
Eight mortal elders stared up at the sky, opened mouthed. The sun blinded their eyes as it shone down on them. The night had not come for days--or was that weeks or months? No one was really sure anymore. They looked down, turned to their neighbours, repeatedly asking the same question.
What happens now?
What happens now?
Literature
Own Skin
I bought myself a Moleskine
to emulate Picasso, Hemingway
was never seen without his
in canal-side cafes, Spanish bull rings.
My fingers grease its ebon spine
over and over in tactile search
for some hidden leak of creative essence
I found Dante's house
down an old narrow street
alongside a crowd of German tourists
I did not enter only stared
at his stones, the exterior.
The hotel room is filled
with the buzz of the alleyway below,
restaurant kitchens' backdoors opening
for cooks, waitstaff, rubbish bags and oaths,
effusive shoppers admiring new pashmina
scarves haggled from vendors
in the adjacent market square.
I close t
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
Winter.
As he talks, I imagine
the words are tiny icicles,
falling from the awning
of a late afternoon
to pluck holes in my eyes
(leaving tattoos
all over my retinas).
"All the better to smell you with, my dear,"
I'll say to the girl he's remembered
when he leads me to drink from
her trough of tears;
"All the better to hear how we harmonize."
No black lace or lillies
stargazing from the sidewalk
of her bedside, no books
enscribed in braile or the
bent knees of leaving;
just smoke and stale breadcrumbs,
guiding her frail understudy
through cold evening
snow.
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My story for ffm and the 55 word challenge.
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Comments12
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Nice. It really does beg another sequel, just to answer the final question. Very nice piece though, especially for the length. 