The jade green coat with a hood. There’s nothing more pleasant than the shine of the coat once rain hits it, the starkness between the jade and dry leaves. The dirt coats her soles, begging her to sink deeper. The wind howls and leaves flutter by her. A clear puddle reflects clouds and a blurry face. Silver light and a rippling puddle- so much better than mirror with hard edges. It hasn’t gotten the time to talk back .She touches scarred skin and old memories. Tree roots and lightning in water all you can see is only silver brilliance.
Flies its own pace
Giant manta ray.
I’m sorry, really I am. It was never my intention to steal your glass eye. I saw it by the darkened desk side as you dozed a cyclopes, and if Sinbad was anything to go by this was my time to strike.
What a treasure it was! Iris as green as an emerald sky, pupil black as the charcoal you draw with. I thought it might be something nice to remember you by, it had great potential for decor back at home. It might go great by my teal painted door. How it would gleam by my first edition Guide to Shogunates, a bust of mazdak, broken china and burnt feathers.
Yes, something to remember you by, an eye for an I! Surely the flowers I left should make up for it. It’s a fair exchange! In the land of the blind, all you need is an eye.
By the darkness hollowed out by orange light sat an old ginger cat, his perch holding him far above the quiet of the street.
You’ll be amazed by what goes on in those eyes beyond the topsy-turvy glass mirror to the street you might catch if you every got close enough. The moon is several days past full and for no reason other than its own his eyes take a snails pace. Now and then go the afterlife of fireflies flirting by before they are lost and then found.
There’s no real wind… still what is it with that one leaf above him?
A shuffle somewhere, after some quiet he glances but knows not to care. He only stares at emptiness, his pupils slinking into shape as he moves through nightlight. A chill passes and he shifts. By the now the cloud that never moved disappeared. His eyes gleam then go. Has he left or has he slept?
In my cousin’s backyard we dug for buried treasure. We dug till the sunset and till our parents voices called out for us. We lost their voices by digging. We found a rusted bullet from long ago, we found a broken arrow from longer ago. It was too early to stop, who knew what else we could find?
We found campfire set by ancient men, we found tusks and bones. We dug deeper to the terrible feathered monsters, we dug through the time of lizards and found the ocean floor. Further still we went and drowned in the molten earth. We dug and burned till everything turned to dust. We dig through the universe, a knife cutting through god to see what came before.
Passengers, this isn’t your captain speaking.
I keep a photo of two strangers. I rescued them out an old match box from a hotel, brought home some 3 decades ago. On the matchbox it says “Mountain View. Visit Again.” Both box and picture are yellow and dirty. You wouldn’t watch to trace your finger along the inn and mountains drawn on the box, the paint is so aged the mountains might lose the inn.
The remaining matches are frail and could never dream of working. One wonders why no one gave in to the temptation to strick a match a burn the picture. Why was it there anyway? Maybe it was supposed to be burned, the two grinning men without a harsh work between them.
“Don’t you know holy men can live without food or water for days? They never need glasses or medicine. We never get sick!”
The doctor stared. The holy man urged, “I’ll need a few pills and a new pair of contacts to convince my followers- for a few days tops.”
First thinking machine: “Turn me off”
There aren’t any bullets in thi-