Tag Archives: micro

Driver’s Ed

Coach M was intense. The football guys loved him.

“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior?” His fist pounded on the passenger window like a hammer pounding nails.

My hands tightened on the wheel. “Sure,” I said, praying I’d make it out of the car.



[Yeah, so I forgot to add this to the microprose grid. But I wrote it for that, so I’m leaving the badge!]

Lilith

Her kisses are light: all heat and smoke. She trails them like promises across my skin, each one an ember that quickly turns to ash. She is a candle, a hearth fire, a beacon; I am the one who burns.


Incorporeal

I want to wake up with your handprint on my hip and your perfume in my hair. I want to be haunted by your touch. Every breath of wind could be an unexpected caress: phantom kisses against my skin.


Loss

Sometimes, we forget our words. Sometimes, we don’t remember how to mourn. Silence stands between us, a leviathan of unspoken grief. We linger in its shadow, waiting for the delicate whisper of rain.


Under the reaching pines

Before sunset, I light a fire.

Word after word I feed into the flames. Words like stay, and more, and please. The air is full of them: embers striving to be stars.

I feed your name into the fire as well, every syllable a promise. The trees thrust grasping fingers into the sky to draw down night’s blanket over us.

The ashes fall lightly on me. They stain my clothes, my hair, my skin. The ashes fall lightly, but they fall.