post really, really, really short stories.

Maybe it doesn’t mean shit. Maybe my every move can do nothing but drive the searing stake further into your bleeding, screaming heart. All I can say is that I can feel mine breaking too.

It stopped my heart for a long moment. The smash… All I saw was a flash of motion from the corner of my eye and then a small cloud of feathers floating down – so graceful, falling slower than the light rain. Some stuck to the window. White with red tips. I can’t see anything below but its hard to see straight down below the bushes. I want to believe it was ok. Got up and flew away. I can’t bring myself to go outside and look. The thought turns me somewhere deep down. Mowsy is in a tizzy. She was napping on the gold chair by the window when it happened. Now she is looking around twitching in panicked excitement – like she expects more birds to fall from the sky. Our windows are framed by trees and face the park reflecting a wall of more trees. I should have thought of the danger. Now I have hot pink sticky notes on the glass. Need to look for a good decal.

A man went ice skating over the river in the moonlight
A beautiful night
The ice was new
When she got there
His body was lying on the river bank
And she sang to him

When the last breath is gone
If the most important thing is life, you’ve lost
If its love, there is something to look for
Something to do

Inspired by an interview with Kate Braestrup while flying west through a long sunset.

Lingering on until nearly the last half of the last hour…
the heavy mood lifts!
Followed the heat right out the door.
So thats what it was waiting for.

And the man from over the moon
has just arrived with stars in his eyes

I open my eyes, but its dark. Still, I know this place. Its distant, but familiar. And familiar is the only comfort it offers. At least deep down I know it, even if I can’t remember it by name.

Its big and empty and cold. I can hear a hallow metal tinggggggggggg. Like the inside of a silo. Or a steel drum. I can feel the urge to run, to scream, to fill my world with noise and drown out that buzz. I wondered into this empty room to find peace but the sounds of my thoughts only get louder. And with volume they seem to gain strength.

Tick, click, CLICK. My efficient machine manufactures enthusiasm. I can count on it to fill in for me as a straw man that can sing and dance under the spot light. And I watch from a scared dark corner. At first I was fascinated with my own creation. Now it has grown old and I still sit, withering away.

Split in two. One becomes dead weight. Gets used to the free ride.

I lent her the key so she can let herself in without waking me. And now keyless, I wake up and I can’t find my way out. So I peer through the key hole and watch the world fly by.

Photo credit to arntrich found on Flickr. What a beautiful image.

A violin fell from the sky into a quiet lake
where an old man learns to swim again after he went blind

The grass that grew from the bottom muck
had the once-in-a-life-time-chance to play fiddlestick for attentive ears

The snoring dog woke himself into a dream. Chasing rabbits underwater through the kelp forests of his paradise. And when he finally catches up to that cotton tail, he sings her to sleep.

He scowls at the dirt beneath his finger nails. Follows the long line of a still sticky scab down his wrist where it ducked beneath a worn and torn sleeve. Unrecognizable to the jacket he had put on before he walked out that door, not knowing where it would lead him. The blood stain on its cuff had already started to disappear within the camouflage of newer grime. This has been the longest week of his life.

But Monday night is before him and his odds improved. The lucrative business of fresh recycle bins. Stashed behind fences and in garages – an unspoiled loot. He sits in the shadows and watches, one by one, as they are rolled out and lined up along the street. Left for the taking. One mans trash…

He waits, patiently, until the time is right. He sucks in the cool night air with what remains at the tip of a found cigarette butt. Too tired to think. He lets his thoughts slip away as each window of lights flicks off. One by one.

He lets his eye run along the rows of garbage cans, counting the big blue drums. Then back across the rows of houses they stand before. Reckoning their contents and weight. A distant sound of bottles rolling across concrete. Open season.

He figures ts best to begin with the apartment building on the corner. Where you can keep an eye in both directions for other looters and loot spoilers. Then hit the other multi-family units before working your way down the line.

Two houses in – it was number five-o-one. The triplex with blue shutters. Flipped the lid and almost passed it off as an empty. Or at least not worth diving for. But something makes him look back.

Shifting the can onto its wheels makes a load thud. He looks around. Yes, he is still alone. Have to laugh at the sudden self consiousness. He rolls it across the crest in the road to the nearest street lamp. It takes some effort. It is heavy. He tilts it back under the light and peers in. For a moment he doesn’t breath. Then he sucks in all the breath he has. Time stands still and only his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. He’s hit the jackpot.

It smells like pizza said her nose. And she followed it. To the top of a hill, back down. Through thick woods and across a desert. And the further she went, the more her mouth watered, until she left her own river rippling behind her.

But when she finally reached the big pizza in the sky, alas it was covered in anchovies. Stinky little fish, their stinky little eyes looking up at her. Naturally, her nose recoiled. But as she drew back, her last drop of drool landed smack on top of a stinky silver head. Much to her surprise, the little silver eyes opened. The little silver body wiggled. And then, in grand gesture, the little fish took a giant leap right off of the pie and into the sea of drool. This sight awoken a deep longing for bliss among the other anchovies and before long they began to follow. One after the next, their swan dives running together like a silver rainbow. She blinked her eyes in astonishment. Smiled. And sank her teeth into her own sea of basil, tomato, and hot cheese.

I would love to start exploring fictional writing. This seems like a perfect way to start. And a good way to explore personal mythology. Maybe my first one will be about a bath.