12 words

You’re a receding pinpoint of memory

My reflection blinks when I stare


Funeral Atmosphere

For the life of me I’ll never figure out why they had to hold a service in a place so overwhelmed with the smell of varnish.

It felt like the carpenter, filled with hate, decided to show his displeasure through the wood- smacking it down with layer after layer of varnish. His presence was heavy and recent just like the smell. I suppose when you’re weeping and listening to comforting voices, you don’t pay much attention to your nose. Not like people bother sniffing out trouble on finer days either.

The smell took me back to an old memory, where while helping around the house I was tasked with coating old furniture with new layers of varnish. It was help by virtue of me not being able to get in the way of actual work but I liked it none the less. The smell so artificial and powerful was pleasant. The nature of varnish in it’s liquid form added to the effect, so like water, but faster to flow and evaporate. So delicate you’d think it’s valuable.

I was working on a phone stand, one that still had it’s twisted, crunched and swelled shape as a tree trunk, you’d think it was alive if it wasn’t for it’s branches that had been cut off so you could put phones and phonebooks on it. I never bothered to get the dust out of the crannies, I figured no one would bother to check.

The memory ended when another waft made me gag. My neighbor leaned over to share his dispare, I only told him that it was good, very good that he felt something.


He ran fast, his life depended on it. But it was no use- his pursuer was far faster.

Arms thick as tree trunks hoisted him up, to examine him under sunlight. Inside the beetles nest, he was neatly placed, pinned and labeled with the other human specimens of various ethnicities.


Silver light mirror

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.


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.

Cat eye marble

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?