I was seventeen the first time I died. It was gentle, like the dying of a star. My heart stopped, you said, for fifteen minutes. I died a thousand times between then and now. I died again at nineteen and twenty-two and thirty-seven and a hundred and three; I died in war and in bed, … Continue reading Immortal
Tag: microfiction
Chameleon
Maybe tomorrow I will be made of magic. I will strike sparks from the sky with my fingertips. I will snatch sheep from the hillside where they graze. Tomorrow I will catch your gaze: a glint of light and then gone. But today I am a fat lizard, all sinew and scales, contemplating a stone … Continue reading Chameleon
Deliverance
“They call me Glory.” It is a use-name. This matters less to the thick-necked bureaucrat barring my way than to his masters. Burdened by the weight of a name I was not born to and do not want, I swing my sword.
Winter
I balled up my grief between my hands, like snow, until the cold settled into my bones. I imagined I could hear your voice calling me into the house. My fingers opened; I left my sorrow under the junipers, waiting for spring.
Glutton
Some stories come gently, drifting in and settling on the page. Others stories fight the telling. Tooth and claw, they snarl and bite. I wrestled a wolverine into a cage and left it on your doorstep. I dare you to open it.
Christine Hanolsy 