The plate is what did it. George hated the damn thing ever since him and Hannah got married. She said her aunt told her it was a relic from the Civil War, that her great grandad had it in his pack when he was shot in the nose at Vicksburg. Horseshit. She probably bought it at some flea market and conjured up some make-believe like all them old Kentucky women do. The chipped, porcelain circle – white rim decorated with blue flowers – was a shrine to deception and fabrications. George couldn’t stand it.
Hannah was yelling when he grabbed it. She was starting in on him about drinking when he reached into the cabinet with all the ceramic dishes. He flung that damn plate through the dining room window.… ...continue reading
In a small town, the weary figure of a man walking his dog, chain lead strung slackly between the man’s right hand and the dog who follows a good dozen feet behind him, a dog so aged, overweight, and arthritic it’s a miracle of sorts that it can move at all. Links of the chain drag on the sidewalk. The man wears an ancient army coat with a fur-lined hood and what seem to be ancient fur-lined bedroom slippers on his feet. He never turns his head to regard the dog’s progress or to assess its well-being but in essence ignores it. Soon it will rain, the man says to himself, it will be good for the corn, although the fields outside of town are vast panes of white ice in the last light of late afternoon, with no farmer here giving corn seed a thought for another eight weeks at least.… ...continue reading
I’ve been thinking of you lately. I’m sorry our relationship ended as it did. We were so sympatico, always in the same orbit, my sun to your moon. Remember when we walked the Plaza that April day? We stopped for ice cream, some of the chocolate dripping down your chin. I wiped it off with my sleeve so your white dress wouldn’t smear. Pretty gallant, huh? We laughed about your job as a hairdresser and the weird people you’d meet, that dude with a mohawk and nose rings, the chick with seven colors of hair like a mood ring gone psycho, the grandma with blue hair and perm ringlets so tight her brain was starved for thought. Are you still working there (I can’t imagine why)?… ...continue reading
Here I am longing for what will never be taken apart by an unbearable discontent
happiness goes away humankind spending too much time on a terrible story
it’s likely going to be ugly it’s likely too that it’s either absurd choices or a heinous tomorrow an increase of this accidental tragedy blinded by the promises of heaven
easily taken in I am despite the rumors of the curtain calls without being seen after years of this
I’m not myself as kids learn to twitch there is no second chance
Paradise, you should know, is but a version of our world where everything is just as it should be; hereabouts brooks flow through lush meadows frequented by hovering hummingbirds and butterflies flitting between flowers as dark-eyed houris, virginal but nubile, splendidly endowed, outstretch and sun themselves on lawns or rove vineyards, ready and eager to ensorcell newcomers with their wiles and charms, with figures sinuous and sensuous, lovely to behold.… ...continue reading
The echo of shackles in motion filled the room with a searing tension. “Kneel,” a guard commanded as he forced it down. The king’s eyes widened in a mix of wonder and terror as he gazed upon what knelt before him. Or, as it felt, what didn’t. It was emptiness in the form of a human body. What knelt before him felt not like a creature, but the lack of one—an inky void from head to toe with the exception of its eyes, like an inferno condensed and solidified into the form of eyeballs.
“What is this?” the king questioned.
“It was found in the walls, no explanation as to how it got in.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the king asked the creature with a tone that held an initial strength, but weakened with every proceeding second of silence.… ...continue reading
