Tag Archives: micro-fiction

Handwritten Pages #17

 

Standing inside the phone booth, its panes of glass crumbled to hail stones on the concrete floor, with the receiver cradled against my ear, I pretend to put coins in the slot while listening to the dial tone. The static drone a soundtrack to the anonymity of pain. Stabbing the numbers in a sequence I have never forgotten, hoping to call the ghosts of the future to tell them not to wait up for me.

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Handwritten Pages #16

 

Autumn of Cheeseburgers

I walk through the autumn of cheeseburger wrappers drifting on the updraft of car exhaust with only enough change in my pocket to buy you and me an ice cream cone.

Handwritten Pages #15

image

     She ties the dressing gown around her waist. Lines up her toes where the metal coping separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom tiles. A diver’s stance. Anticipation of the tiles’ coldness.
     She steps. Plummets. Side steps the bath mat. Plants her feet squarely. Small ripples quickly subside. The cold tiles prickle the soles of her feet until it stings. Tapers off to an equilibrium.
     Repeatedly she will lie on her back on the bathroom floor undressed. Lets the cold of the tiles fight with the heat of her body. She relents. Acquiesces. Adds a layer of permafrost to her heart against the fire of her mother’s tongue.

Zentangle #7 Bare Feet

bare-feet

Every so often
walk with bare
feet
in the trees
stand and
imagine

And a bonus black out poem

the-other-side

I know 
the other side
I know
another direction

Zentangle #6 Celestial Bodies

celestial-bodies

celestial bodies
would be
quite unbearable

And a bonus blackout poem for your enjoyment

odd-things

Zentangle #5

zentangle-5

Once upon a time
you
gave up this nonsense
I
think we
changed places without
moving

 

Handwritten Pages #12

image

The boy said, “Daddy, you’re crying. Are you hurt?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Where? I can’t see it.”
“In my heart and in my head.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa, my father, died and I miss him.”
For the first time the boy knew a pain beyond the physical scrape of a grazed knee, the sting of Dettol and the salve of attention.
In the awkwardness of facing human pain he saw the wounded soul seeping out from behind an imaginary Band-Aid; a too small covering for a gaping wound.
He leaned forward and kissed his father’s forehead.