Consciousness hits as you’re fighting suffocation. Face down in a basement room of Dante’s Inferno, you’re flattened against a sea of bodies caught trying to roll over. You feel your lips press against the hollow below Yannick’s left ear. His good side.
The pirates came, like every Tuesday. You know how they’d kidnap me, hie me away to some dive out on Rte. 128 and dump me on the lawn by the hydrangea in the morning. So I unlocked the liquor cabinet: shoot me.
You all think you’d know what to do, when to do it. I’d like to see you try. Try not to see that nothing is illuminated, that no one’s walking up the path. You try leaving it on all night. Every night.
Did not make this week's grid, but in exchange was given a cooler title. Thanks Rowan!
When it finally occurred to me to glance up from my perfect crouch, the pole was headed straight at me. I leaned hard to the right, and there was the snow bank. Obviously, the rental guy gave me the wrong color boots.
Really, there’s no need for light. Better to leave the curtain tangled. If that bulge in the middle seems to ripple, call it the wind. If the wind calls, listen. When it skulks by tinged in frost, it cries Mary. Screams Mary.
Honored to be chosen Editor's Pick by Rowan for this challenge : )
On the darkest evening of the year, I follow the downy-flaked trail out past the village. Between the woods and frozen lake, I locate the dollhouse. My sister can’t drag it any farther. Stopping here, we watch it fill up with snow.
I was lying in bed without him, recalling how it used to be before Hemingway ruined it for all of us. There was a shuddering, and the night froze. Now I’m left hanging, forever facing Venus, butt of some juvenile cosmic joke.
She sits as his last breath rises. His soul, energy, life-force hovers goodbye. No, she says. Rising, it disperses, turning into universe. No, she cries, how will I know you? Out near another galaxy it flinches. Gathers. Returns. Reenters her atmosphere. Ignites.