As I lay with my love, feeling with my fingertips the warmth of his bones beneath his skin and caressing with my lips the invisible lines of his face, I thought of a poem. If I had opened my mouth and let the words fall from my tongue, this is what my love would have heard: Continue reading
A response to Chuck Wendig’s June 12 Flash Fiction Challenge.
Before you are ready, your mother will die. Of illness – the terminal kind. Not the kind of disease that eats away at the organs and shrivels up bone and flesh. That kind can be seen, measured, diagnosed, maybe cured. And if it can’t be cured, at least you know what it is and how it works. But your mother’s disease will remain a mystery. There’s a name for it, maybe, but that won’t make it any easier on your mind or your heart. It will take her from you, one piece at a time, so slowly that you’ll barely notice – that you’ll learn to accept her abnormal as normal, her sickness as wellness – and then, when you’re not looking, all at once. Continue reading
Inspired by the heroic flowers of Hilda Doolittle’s Sea Garden poems, and especially the little Sea Violet.
We blinked away the salt that flew into our eyes, faltered in the wind that tore at our dresses. Ankle-deep in sand we stood, sand like snow, the dust of February. We stood – no, swayed – white violets, fragile, fluttering. Continue reading