Category: prose
-
1607: Six Sentence Story
Red Planet Every Saturday her mother wound damp strips of cotton through her long black hair, and by morning the curls sprang free, dark and shining, as though each had dreamed all night of dancing. She tied a bright red balloon to the end of her ponytail and stepped into the morning with it tugging…
-
0507: Six Sentence Poem
Two Six Sentence Poems: Thunder I. Thunder Thunder wilts through July’s green oak.Distance beyond distance.Sun-bleached blue.We renamed the cloudless sky Thunder.Its heat soaked into the flagstones.Then again, it rumbled —the long arm from a constellation. II. Thunder Cloudless all afternoon.Thunder somewhere beyond the hills. The flagstones giving backeverything the sun had taken. But no storm…
-
0407: Violet’s Phraseology
A Persistent Syllable not overnight,not immediate,gradual,like a shadow’s slow wrap around a flagpole,like the tap’s persistent syllablecounting out moments. No more today, she says,and closes her book,as if a page holds a boundaryagainst the drip,the drift,the soft unravelof sight. Would you mind, love,chopping the onions?I don’t thinkI should. All the words we hear.All the sounds…
-
0207: Brigid’s Diary – A Six
The Epilogue: A Return to Thyme Brigid and Felreil left Room 215 as they had entered it, by the hidden closet, with the good sense not to ask whether one century had finished or merely misplaced them in someone else’s plan. The bellhop-automaton raised a final card, though neither of them paused to read it;…
-
3006: Brigid’s Diary – Two Sixes
Part 15 & 16: 1842, Cagnes-sur-Mer, France (Brigid’s Diary, Winter: 1842: one year on) Where is Felreil?That’s what I want to know. Where is he in his black frock coat, moving as if Boreas lived in its pockets, striding streets and alleys in long English-blackened boots, as though Provence’s glossy night had always been part…
-
2906: Six Sentence Story
Brigid and Felreil Arrive in Room 215 Brigid and Felreil came through the hidden closet of Room 215 as though stepping between centuries were merely a poor plan carried out with good manners, and Felreil, without visible surprise, laid his French Imperial Navy-cut coat across a time-aged leather wing-back chair with the air of a…
-
2706: dVerse Ars Poetica
Ars Poetica: The Yew This is a tree.But this is not about the tree,and it’s not about that summer,or the forest behind our house,or the Japanese maplethat Dad naileda birdhouse on. Nails.Crucified.Like Jesus. I called itthe Jesus Treeafter that. And it’s not aboutthe huckleberriesI ate before chasingsomething. Something — I can’t recall what. Always runningbeneath…
-
2406: Six Sentence Story
Clam Chowder Summer heatwave; you’ve fallen asleep with The Telegraph spread across your knees. I remember our second date: we spoke of death, a girlfriend, a fire, a club with locked exits; only those who’d paid went in. Most of them didn’t, you paused, and I finished the sentence. It was that time of year…
-
2306: Brigid’s Diary – A Six
Part 14, Brigid’s Diary: Winter, 1836 – 1841, Cagnes-sur-Mer, France Where Waiting Is Believing The arbours are vine-brittle skeletons touched with ice; terracotta pots lay shattered by winter’s slow fist, and even the small grey angels above the door have surrendered to grimaces. For these five years, we’ve lived in a stone cottage adjoining the…
-
1606: Brigid’s Diary – A Six
Part 13, Brigid’s Diary: The Abbey of Saint-Roman Beaucaire, July 1836, Camouflage The Beaucaire Fair moved like the Rhône in flood, bodies and bargains braiding into one slow current, and Felreil folding his foreignness into the merchants’ black coats and polished leather while quick fingers rehearsed their small rebellions at the height of a purse.…
It's Still Life 