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Feathers and Thorns chapters 9 and 10 posted.
“Farewell Blues”
Just one more time, play those sweet jazz blues.
Nothing vibes like a saxophone crooning a scotch on the rocks.
Nothing hits as hard as the sound of that old name coming around again.
So just one more time babe, sing that song for me.
@
Chapters seven and eight of Feathers and Thorns posted.
“Anesidora”
I didn’t watch the world begin, but I might watch it end.
The scent of wafting willows on the breeze was always my favorite.
I used to lie on the grassy hilltop, watching cars drive passed as I dug my toes into the cold, squishy dirt.
The night-clouded sky would burst with glorious splendor as Helios’ gift crest the horizon.
Some days I’d simply drift away, until pangs of hunger rumbling in my belly would nag about things I’d forgotten.
But I never gave up a chance to watch Selene draw her blanket over the dusk, leaving a glittery trail of star-crumbs on her way home.
My mistake was a simple one, like most are.
But no one ever cares about who you were when you become the world’s worst criminal.
So they say.
I liked to smile. I like smiles.
The look on another’s face when my supple skin brushes a little too close to theirs.
So close I’m euphoric in a sea of their light, sweet perfumes and colognes.
They shy away, afraid, but then they see my smile.
People are lonely until you invite them into you.
I don’t think I was ever really “evil.”
Evil-ish, maybe, but in the same way–I think–that most people are “good-ish.”
Whether that’s true at all doesn’t change much: I found the jar.
The way hot, cheesy pepperonis stick between your teeth is how I know love.
I’ve met dazzling people–some for whom the word “rapture,” is now reserved.
And there have been some whom I’d just as soon forget, and probably have.
Other things have happened on occasion: sunrises with friends on the lawn, the ocean pier at sunset, so many day dreams I’ll never remember.
But there has always been, and ever shall be, sticky sweet pizza.
When it was all said and done, there was only one thing left.
I’m guessing by now you know what it is.
You’ve heard the story, I’m sure.
There’s just one small thing: I lied.
The jar is empty.
Really wanna know what’s left?
Me. The world’s worst criminal.
Good luck.
@
First draft of Emarosa is done.
Starting the first round of revisions and edits, so expect the posted stuff to change sooner or later.
May have to remove it at some point if it gets picked up for anything, so there’s that too.
Chapters five and six posted.
“Vintage Skies“
Cracks in the curtain invite burning rays of light into crusty, bed-ridden eyes.
The stomach’s growl preaches no forgiveness for a lazy boy on a lazy morning.
Through the window he casts a glance to clear, vintage skies.
He’ll never know if they glance back.
The day begins like a day begins.
Warm tea sparks the fire in his Irish Cream eyes.
Radio breaks the radio silence, singing songs it’ll always sing.
A stuffed puppy on a cabinet; in his mind it sings along.
Toward the fridge he turns, a calendar with expired days left unmarked.
In the margin lies a note: “Good morning hun.”
There’s probably more to the story than the greeting implies.
But on the bottom a drawing with the caption, “See You Space Cowboy.”
Sizzling eggs came and went, their aroma drifting through an open screen door.
The weatherman should’ve taken a day off, ‘cause them clear skies are rainin’ awful hard.
Or was that tomorrow? And yesterday’s tomorrow, or the day before?
Gets harder to tell them apart.
An overlit room grows dim in the afternoon.
That’s a time best reserved for porches.
And the clouds go by like time never was.
Time was, they never would.
In between, some things happen and some things don’t.
Yet the sun grows tired or the Earth grows turn-y, and it’s time for another tomorrow.
Before long (how long was it) aging bones find their way to an expanse of a bed always welcoming.
And those crusty, bed-ridden eyes hide themselves away until tomorrow.
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