The Last Summer Night

It was a cool summer evening.  I was watching the butterflies. Or perhaps they were moths.  I could hear the peepers calling through the night.

But then the sky turned orange, like a sugary sorbet.  All our eyes looked up.  Its ghastly glow cast shadows across our faces.

“Fireworks!” Someone was clapping.

But the light did not fade; it burned through the sky, eating our air.  And then it fell. Fell on the city.  Engulfed it in flames.  We watched with terror as the skyline melted to the ground.

Eyes wide.

Mouths open.

Utter silence.

The ash began to fall.

after leaving my apartment

it was cold for june. i remember thinking i would need a jacket. it looked like rain. i opened the door to leave my building and the wind slammed it shut behind me, chasing me out into the damp air. there was something off about the evening. the earth was having a fight with the sky, and nature was beginning to feel the effects. i looked up at the window of my apartment and saw the impression left by a hand that was slightly smaller than mine. i closed my eyes and felt the same impression on my own skin.

Trigger

His finger brushed the trigger, almost a caress.

The barrel tapped against his leg. 

There was fear.

But the urge. It was so powerful.

It was all there. It would be so easy to do it. 

But the fear. It held him back… For a moment.  

He pressed the cold, cold barrel against skin. 

His temple was right there, an obstacle in the way of instant death. 

At this range, it would be no obstacle, there would be no mistakes.

He pulled the trigger. Heard the gunshot reverberate through the room. 

He looked down at the body. 

Lifeless now. 

Bundle of Nerves

She was a bundle of nerves standing at the bus stop that first day. Her nervous feet walking the letters S-T-O-P, then P-O-T-S, then back again. The bus pulled up. She looked back at her mom, who gave an encouraging nod and tiny wave. With one more tentative glance back, she followed the children in front of her onto the bus. The torn green seats were not as she expected. The bus driver did not look as she expected. She quickly took a seat by the window. There was a sudden “plump” beside her.

“Hi!” the ‘plumper’ said. “I’m Annie.”

Sister

Sister, we've got our differences. Our looks, for one – you dark and curly, me light and straight. Our interests, for another. I'm sure if we grew up together our fights would have been numerous – there is only room for one person to know everything, of course. And there is no one else I know who wouldn't hesitate to tackle me for a cell phone.

But what are my words when I see the blood and the runners and the spectators and feel the fear? Or when my world is falling apart?

Simply, with certainty, "I want my sister"

Miles to go

You’d think that I’d be better at this game by now. That I wouldn’t be an idiot anymore. I mean come on. Don’t grown-ups have this figured out? I wish that all those naps that I took as a kid had somehow been stored somewhere so that I could make a withdrawal now. I should have cherished my sleep. I’m still trying to live by the rules of this game. Because sleep and time don’t work like the money in the bank. I don’t have it figured it out yet.

All I have is miles to go before I sleep. 

Miguel’s Garden

Bluebells are growing, Miguel,

And some small white flower I cannot identify

But you had planted

Bright orange and yellow marigolds

To keep the insects from your tomatoes

No one would call it a yard

Just a patch, really

All the houses in this neighborhood take up more space than the grass

But you claimed your strip of dirt

You declared it a redeemed space

Placed a sign that read “Miguel’s Garden”

We all marvelled

It has been replaced, Miguel

The new sign says “Bardi’s Roofing”

Nevertheless, wherever you are

You are doubtless

Having a cigarette

While your vegetables ripen

fantasies (5.1.13)

The man strides across the lacquered floor and stops at the oak door heavy laden with gothic engravings and knocks thrice.
This was it.
The door opens and the hinges creak in a strange welcome to the man.
“Princess Madeline, Sir Davenport is here.” 
“Send him in,” replies the smooth, sultry voice. 
And then it hit him.
She was not a figment of his imagination. She was as real as the nose on his face and the hair on his head. Realer than the sun setting over the mountains. Realer than the shoes on his feet and the money in his pocket.
He crossed the threshold and smiled.