Archive for August, 2009|Monthly archive page


His conquest of governmental destruction could be seen as foolish to those that didn’t see the royal flush he had pulled with the river: he had infected the senate first, promising all high-ranks of power and trash bags of money. The allure drifted through every mind, eventually, until all had misplaced their trust. And, then he struck.



The speedy buggy jumped the bump and tossed the driver toward a telephone pole like a horseshoe. He hadn’t yet sprouted wings (as most humans don’t) but flailed his arms in an attempt to stay airborne. When he collided with the wood, he circled around as a ringer and landed on the dirt, looking up to the blue.


The art of sleep takes a clever, selfless mind; one must give up their stream of thoughts to the mass collective on the brink of unconsciousness. Those distant fingers pick through ideas and pull out the berries while piling branches for poetry fodder. The selfish stare to the darkened ceilings, anchoring their proudest thoughts and turning through nights.


Hungry tanks munched through the fields, chewing and spitting the remains back onto the ground. When they realized humans used them for personal gain, they lost passion and coated the metal in a deep tint of rust. Planes hovered just above the trees and sprinkled pesticides down to coat the skin in an inescapable fire spreading by touch.


His overgrown heart gave into sleep, and he became an incubating marshmallow; this transient body could no longer support the fluff that covered him. Gentility marked his fur in an arsenic glow, and a strut guided him whenever he stepped. For now, he replicated on the coffee table, arms stretched out, legs posed in air, with a smile.


She cocked her head back and fired a stare to fracture his heart; the shotgun made no noise, and the blood from the entry point vanished. He turned away, but she could see his twitching eyes, his rumbling fingertips. He twisted back and took the onslaught head-on, gauging his chance for survival. And, then, she asked, “What?”


She leaned against the banister while her hair dangled feet toward the floor; the bistre strands molded to their own desires, passing broken waves near the bottom. Her seal brown eyes graced the bookshelf, then the door, wondering what could break her boredom: one knock hit thrice, and her jittery fingers twisted it open to a hazel glow.


The car hammered through the dead-end, regarding the sign as outdated or inept. As it approached the brick wall, it tunneled right down and got stuck between escape and freedom. Eyes watched it fail to leave the realm and scanned for any life. When the man climbed out, he stood next to his mistake, smiled and posed.


The ashtray flambe parasailed the Florida breeze and dove inside open mouths, collecting on the throat like coats of tar paint. Adults whittled their lungs away with passing puffs, allowing blackness to overcome delicate pinks. Their voices passed through cheese graters until no fragment of sound conveyed more than a grunt. Now all that’s left are yellow bones.

Waiting room

The antique, white chair pressed against the teal wall as I waited for the door to open. The photographs above my head spoke of realities long passed; sepia tones bled through the colorless hues like aging newspaper. I could see the the handle twist; the door’s soft crack a few centimeters open, not yet big enough to fit.