Tag Archives: microprose

Kismet

Six months ago I’d’ve said it’s crazy, the idea of you and me. Six weeks ago I almost walked away.

Shaking my head, I button my best shirt, red garnets winking at collar and cuffs, and watch your face light up in the mirror.


Not your princess

My mother poisoned apples. My father hid his heart inside a tree. It was a family thing, dealing death and dodging it.

I don’t have time for subtlety. I tried being quiet; I pretended to sleep. I tossed a twig and grew a prickly thicket ‘round my house. You cut it down.

I call lightning into my palm. Dare you to open that door.


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!]

Fee, fie, foe

They keep coming: small men with their small desires. They hunger for my gold; they scrabble through my table leavings. They foul the air with their scent.

Here comes another, hand over hand to steal my solitude. Let me ready my plate.


Scorcher

Nights like this, I sleep naked, seeking relief in the coolness of empty sheets. I wake to the droning of cicadas, the yearning for rain, the ache of desire and the taste of your name in my mouth.