Moderately sized squares with properly scaled rectangles–doorways without thresholds which dictate the perimeter of the common area.
Far from the Rhodesian vale whose fertility depends on an infrequent rain.
Amidst sheets of paper with thicknesses no greater than .097 mm–colloquies bound for an eye to read pile themselves upon each other and wait for the tips of his fingers to smooth and carry them across the room.
There are streams which only last for minutes that cut landscapes and take lives. They rush past the satiated promise of family cloaked in ambivalence. And, then, sink into the soil which once supported them.
As a boy, he would sit at the corner of his father’s driveway. There was often little else during those moments save the sounds of neighbors coming home from work and of the various sprinkler systems which would activate just as the sun began to disappear beneath the horizon. Once, before the moths and mosquitoes, he watched a hawthorn blossom glide on the warm currents of air which rose from the top of the asphalt; falling and rising yet always parallel to the ground: That, he remembers having thought, is what I’ll be when I grow up.
Yellow corn 4078
White corn 4077
Green zucchini 4851
Yellow squash 4788
Watermelon cut 4360
Watermelon Slices 4361
Clear Escape Enter item number quantity print
The dowry signs line the highway looking like billboards for tourist attractions.
I can see through you, but I can’t be sure.
If the obviousness of this ploy fails.
What does that say about us?
Does it convey that we’re undone?
Does it tell them what they want us to know?
So much depends on the algebra we never learned.
“Another bright flash.”
“Probably just a surge–they come all the time these days.”
“You ever notice how the sand feels differently?”
She walks out to bass drums.
“You think they can tell?”
“If she’s everything they need?”
In spring, the sun sets across the leaves.
The satellites record their deeds.
“We’ve got a couple choices, I think.”
“How can you ever pretend to believe in what they’d need?”
“Remember, when the days went easy? It wasn’t peace. But we did our best to make them see.”
A couple kids can’t matter in the scheme of things.
He picks up the phone.
“We’re brothers, remember? We’ve got each other’s back…”
An empty street.
“This is the tool you’ll need–strip the marked leads. Are you listening?”
“I just want her to be okay.”
“This is okay. What you want is change. Which is fine. It’s probably what Annie wants, anyway.”
“Jump in the truck. It’s elegant.”
“Can it make it back?”
“Does it matter?”
“How many did she say?”
She said, “They’re it. You. You can’t let what you don’t know really happened make what you know is bad happen just because they tell you to.”
Prompt: After delivering a lecture. The Professor says, “Due tomorrow. A study of the bow, by degrees.”
Write this study.
Bonus: Write it in prose.
An Etsy seller hires a down and out author to write a few descriptions of items.
Good descriptions. At first. Then, the writer falls in love. Such inspiration, very addictive. The descriptions go viral.
People start buying items. They realize: when an item sells out–the descriptions disappear forever.
Items stop selling. The owner’s family needs money. The media has its story.
The love of the writer is distraught. The writer is as well.
The writer thinks of a way to save the love’s family. The writer suggests they close the shop abruptly.
There is outcry.
The family opens a new shop. All the same items. They cost a fortune.
People pay outrageous prices
to read descriptions.
Moments that at first seem inconsequential often later become memories because they were originally consequential to another.
We walked down the slope under a pre-storm sky–it gave everything that certain light. Toward the museum and past the bar which somehow looked threatening at night. “There’s a part of the exhibit I want you to see.” “Oh, yeah?” “Only if we have time. Hear the sounds from above? They’re piped down the sides.” “Ugh, eerie.” “I know. Amirite?”
–Where did you get it?
–Oh. I guess we can use it. Maybe for the laundry scene.
-It wasn’t meant for the show.
–It’d work though.
-I guess. Are we gonna talk about this?
–After dinner. Unless your parents stay.
-They might. I can’t see how that matters. Another excuse to use? If only for their own sake?
-No. Of course not.
–You know I never said…
-Among all the things you could never say. What part of your silence is fair game?
–Whatever part remains?
Thomas: That’s not what L.A. is about these days. Remember in the old commercials? You knew right away. There was a certain, crispness. Your aunt used tell a story about meeting your uncle that might help explain. Hannah, tell the ice cream story about Kip.
Hannah: It was always cold in that house until eleven when the sun would shine through the huge front window. Stereo in the center. Ficus to the right. Casting such crazy shadows. That’s when I’d usually be lying on the yellow shag carpet with their Persian cat, Sasha. Staring up at the ceiling. Rolling the threads of the rug’s weave between my thumb and forefinger. When I got up, I put the T.V. Guide next to the orange bowl on the rosewood end table and walked past his grandmother’s cork lamp–which he watered every day. I made myself a cup of coffee. If she only knew, I thought. Later, when we shared a sundae in the Tastee Freez off Liberty Street. He said, “Can you believe it?” I said, “Never in a million years.” Then, we took a stroll on the dock. He said, “It can’t be true. Can it?” We got to the end and sat down. The balls of our feet skimmed the surface of the pond as we swung our legs. I said, “Seems to me regardless, if it’s true, we’ll be okay.”