The coffee tasted like reheated bong water yet he still ordered a second cup. There were stains on her dress from killing the rooster. Not a single kind word passed between. Nor salt, nor soap. Yet footsteps could be heard in the stairwell, a pattering that echoed, as if a little body followed.
The stars swirled, assembled into the shape of a clipper ship, one that was pointed west. Two children – both long dead – stood critically by. Failure was a real possibility. He mulled at night the many books he had made, while ink dried on his fingers, and smoke from his cigar circled lazily the many trees. Hiding was a favorite verb, as pink was a favorite color.
It was all substance, all the time, and that was the new theory of poetics. Smell of wild catnip on the morning breeze, an herb nobody planted, and now look. The rabbit’s hind leg had been torn from it’s body, held to by a bloody skein, and it panted rapidly, each breath outrunning the other towards death. In the distance, you could hear sheep blat. A barn, one in which a suicide sang before leaping off the rafter.
There was no word, and a thin rapier inserted just below the shoulder hurt less. The picture had mold on it, orange and yellow flowers that obscured her face, her sweetly crooked grin. Pretty and magic are special friends. The allotment began swallowing its tail, inducing genuine panic. While the cost of maple syrup went – I mean really went – up.