Touch of Midnight

The moonlight makes shadows dance across the lawn and fills the valleys between the hills in my backyard with pools of silken darkness. Dew is gathering on the grass, and I am walking in the cool beneath the fruit trees watching the fireflies spark like stars in the expanse of land around me . . .

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Advent Train Stories: Heart Unwrapped

He does little things to amuse himself. Knitting, sewing, even yoga. He does these things to amuse himself but mostly he does them because he is lonely.

There is a photograph on his bedside table of an apple tree. It is burdened with red fruit, yet it holds itself upright proudly. The date on the photo is written on it in permanent marker. 5.10.15.

The day he lost her.

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Art Abandoned

He sits there in shadow with concrete lacings on his skin and mortality in his eye. River rock and pebble root him to the black earth. Urban landscape abounds . . .

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Urban Legend

Around me, death. I feel it in the crusted soil and smell it in the lost air. It braids through my hair and buries itself in my porcelain skin . . .

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Amaranthine Dance

Under clear skies in shadow of cotton clouds, I am asked to sacrifice who I am in exchange for gold that turns to bronze pennies . . .

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Wagon Train

On this staircase I alight to see the world in silver shoe and indigo slipper. My fingers trail the polished railing. Tears burst beneath my feet as heel pierces scattered sacrificial petal . . .

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Becoming Medusa

People tell me I have this sense of self that radiates off me like silk spun with moonlight, but I am just a girl lost in her own eyes . . .

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Womb Ablaze

~In response to the overturning of Roe vs Wade

The threads of the present are fraying. I watch the fibers loosen at the hem. Slowly, the unfinished weaving of world slips off the loom and flutters into fathomless darkness.

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Cosmogenous Knell

I curve toward the milky way as my ribs crack and oxygen spills through the fissure of my being. Threads cut from silken cabaret stocking trace patterns into my skin . . .

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Body Language

The nightclub wraps silken around me. Candles at the tables and velvet on the chairs, words slip between my fingers. Language massages my palms . . .

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