New Dryer
I sit sweating at the back of a room I’ve never been before. Years of rehearsed excuses taunt. I’m not like these people, not as bad. A woman stands. “Hello, my name is Sara and I’m . . .” I close the door behind me.
I sit sweating at the back of a room I’ve never been before. Years of rehearsed excuses taunt. I’m not like these people, not as bad. A woman stands. “Hello, my name is Sara and I’m . . .” I close the door behind me.
Her good friend, surely she could be trusted. “I won’t tell a soul,” she’d said crossing her heart. It was in the whispers, the pin drop silence around the water cooler. Lesson learned, Kate thought, who the fuck still crosses her heart?
Twenty gates shot open on a crisp morning. Dirt slapped at thunderous legs and her mouth foamed. The roar of lofty hats grew louder. She was close, wanted to please, but pain followed a snap and her shoulder hit the ground first.
Fogged windows, twists and turns. It started as a kiss, a taste, but a soft moan swept her ear and she knew. She wanted. His knee hit the gear shift, they laughed to tears. His eyes danced, and she knew. She loved.
I’ve never been a very good fan. I have a hard time wearing things on my T-shirts. I’m not a big chanter, screamer, “Oh my God…” type of person. I do, however, love music and there have been two times in my life that I have slept on a sidewalk for concert tickets. Once in junior…
Here’s the thing with flowers. No matter how beautiful they are, no matter how much they cost or how many “oohs” and “ahhs” they get, they die. The junky weedy, sometimes lovely, daisy type flowers die the same way the gardenia dies. Isn’t that strange? All this time I’ve been thinking, emoting about the human…
She stumbled out of the bar, as she had seamless nights before. Mouth like cotton, the dull streetlights again swirled dizzy. Beers to shots by midnight and a bouncer’s grip by two. Slouched in a taxi, she wondered where she was heading.
The letter fell to the floor twenty minutes before nine. Smearing lipstick across her tear soaked face, it was clear she had lost her grip. She sat, one shoe, and waited for the rats to crawl through her forgotten wedding cake mind. That’s all from the laundry room. Lost Dream. Forty-two words exactly. The…
Granted it was all balancing on a relaxing weekend, but with car and laundry clean, I was optimistic. Five minutes into the Monday commute, a gooey glop hit my shiny weekend window. Fragile is the state that simple bird crap can topple. Prompt this week…Why do birds suddenly appear?