I'll never finish this one either, but I like the beginning, overwritten as it is.
Lies and Loss
The whole mess began, as many things do, with a lie. It was not a mean lie, but it was a cruel one; it was not a malicious lie, but it was a very damaging one. The lie was told with the best of intentions, but as the witch said later “The road to hell is blah, blah, blah.”
Prince Nico regretted the lie as soon as he said it, but once released, it set into motion the curse, the assassination, and, of course, the war.
But that is not the beginning, and as my father had impressed upon me many times, experimentation is nice and all, but if your audience can’t keep track of the story, well, fancy techniques aren’t going to do you any good. The tale is complicated enough already. And while my dearly departed father—and by that I mean that I’m glad he’s dead—was a lush and a terrible womanizer, he was a storyteller without peer, and he saw fit to pass on his gift to me, and taught me how to turn talent into skill. For this, I am eternally grateful, except on those nights when I’m out of paper, the ink has frozen again, and stories scream in my ravaged mind. Still, my storytelling skills allow me to find the truth within the facts, and will help me to sort out this story for the future. Writing this will cause me some pain, for my stories are angered when I occupy myself with non-fiction, and will punish me for it, but I was determined that future readers should know the real history, as close as I can get it, rather than the revised version that might otherwise have ruled.
So, as I said, the whole thing—and my tale—begins with a lie.
The Kingdom of Skala—my guidebook reads dryly—has an area of 302, 748 square miles. It has a population of 268,000 people, and is famous for its beautiful forests and lakes and its pottery. It greatest export is lumber and wood products. Skala has a monarchy for its government, and the largest city is Yrgis, with a population of about 42,000 people. It also delineates a brief history that uses five pages to list every single king and queen for the past 3,000 years.
Which is of course not at all interesting, except that is reinforces that Skala had a king, a queen, and most importantly, a prince named Nico. The king, whose name was Rens, was perhaps a little too fond of tinkering with new inventions, and the queen, name Eina, was maybe a little too fixated on her gardens, and Prince Nico was perchance a little too eager to please other people.
No, I mis-speak, excuse me. He was definitely, certainly, and undoubtedly far too concerned about making other people happy. Nico wanted to be liked; he was not pathological about it, but he was over-inclined to take the middle road of issues, and sometimes suffered greatly in silence in order to spare someone a minor inconvenience. Never arguing about anything with anyone, his usual expression was a pleasant smile, and no-one had ever heard him raise his voice. This is a wonderful quality for a priest, or a personal assistant, but not very desirable in a royal, especially if that royal is first in line for the throne. If Nico had been a girl, the men of the kingdom said in annoyance, he would have been a tremendous asset to the monarchy, being easy to marry off. But as a male—the future king, the men would groan in horror—Nico was almost dangerous. Bartenders spoke darkly of a king who would listen to everything his advisors said; barbers told their customers of a king who would let an invading army walk right in. Cab drivers were sure that the palace would be run over by thieves, con artists, and jugglers; mind you, there were lots of thieves and con artists right now, but at least they were noble thieves and con artists, not those rough types that would show up as soon as they realized how weak the king was.
Not that Nico was a bad person; everybody agreed that if he’d been a normal person, or a third son or something, he would have been beloved by anybody who met him. But as the authority on the throne, holding responsibility for the whole realm? Well, there were quite a few people who quietly made plans to move when good King Rens died.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Strip Mining
These are the boys who are carrying
the young girl’s body down the road at night,
who are walking to the quarry
stripped long ago
to the useless rock.
She is even less beautiful than she was
at the beginning of the night. She is
crook-toothed and fat. Her mother drank;
her father was half the town.
These are the boys who are carrying
her to lie among the broken pieces
of shale.
Her body will stink in the shallow water
until we come to run in the quarries,
to train on these scraped hills.
We will see her with arms outstretched
and knees torn by the gravel.
We have strong legs and lungs
and untroubled smiles.
We knew her;
she was a slut.
These are the boys who are missing
practice today
and we tell each other that they must be glad
they missed this; we saw
that she had a fly in the wound on her cheek.
There are not enough miles to run
away from this place, her torn dress,
the heat against our sweaty backs.
There is not enough water in our bottles
to slake our need
to forget the stillness of her eyes.
These are the boys who are carrying
the young girl,
carrying the young girl,
over and over in the middle of the night
down to the quarries where they once
ran up and down crumbling hills,
their feet quick and their eyes clear,
when they did not feel her blood under their fingernails
and under their skin.
They stare at the haze that rises
in the morning, the fog
which fills the quarries;
they want to run. Their legs
are useless where they were once fleet,
ripped by the shale,
the nettles, the shattered remains
of the phone she always carried in her pocket.
the young girl’s body down the road at night,
who are walking to the quarry
stripped long ago
to the useless rock.
She is even less beautiful than she was
at the beginning of the night. She is
crook-toothed and fat. Her mother drank;
her father was half the town.
These are the boys who are carrying
her to lie among the broken pieces
of shale.
Her body will stink in the shallow water
until we come to run in the quarries,
to train on these scraped hills.
We will see her with arms outstretched
and knees torn by the gravel.
We have strong legs and lungs
and untroubled smiles.
We knew her;
she was a slut.
These are the boys who are missing
practice today
and we tell each other that they must be glad
they missed this; we saw
that she had a fly in the wound on her cheek.
There are not enough miles to run
away from this place, her torn dress,
the heat against our sweaty backs.
There is not enough water in our bottles
to slake our need
to forget the stillness of her eyes.
These are the boys who are carrying
the young girl,
carrying the young girl,
over and over in the middle of the night
down to the quarries where they once
ran up and down crumbling hills,
their feet quick and their eyes clear,
when they did not feel her blood under their fingernails
and under their skin.
They stare at the haze that rises
in the morning, the fog
which fills the quarries;
they want to run. Their legs
are useless where they were once fleet,
ripped by the shale,
the nettles, the shattered remains
of the phone she always carried in her pocket.
The Failed Poem: Variations on a Theme by Wallace Stevens
I.
Kindling.
II.
Carbon, torn into shreds,
mixed with grass
and potato scrapings and apples,
an ounce of bacteria.
III.
If only I could
peel the letters from the page,
like skin from a sunburnt arm.
IV.
Kite fold—bird fold—crane!
V.
I cut out its slipped thumbs
with an Exacto knife.
A thin scrap of paper
to crumple into my bottle
another day.
VI.
“Not that bad,” she said in a hollow voice.
VII.
The anchor I threw
into the Sargasso Sea.
A dagger in my salty hand,
I saw at the hemp.
VIII.
Scrubbing his brain,
he cleaned to forget,
scarring the nerves with lye.
He’d rather sink into Lethe
than relive the needle to his ego.
IX.
A seed on the sand may be picked up and re-planted.
X.
Blackbirds, if I strip the poem,
will you build me a nest
at the willow-gate?
XI.
They laughed and squeezed the clay
so it ran between their fingers.
The water was cloudy,
the stones were wet.
XII.
It floats on the waves until the words wash off,
and the fish who nibble on it
dream of the desert.
XIII.
“Really not that important in the scheme of things,”
I said,
and I closed my eyes in the sun.
Kindling.
II.
Carbon, torn into shreds,
mixed with grass
and potato scrapings and apples,
an ounce of bacteria.
III.
If only I could
peel the letters from the page,
like skin from a sunburnt arm.
IV.
Kite fold—bird fold—crane!
V.
I cut out its slipped thumbs
with an Exacto knife.
A thin scrap of paper
to crumple into my bottle
another day.
VI.
“Not that bad,” she said in a hollow voice.
VII.
The anchor I threw
into the Sargasso Sea.
A dagger in my salty hand,
I saw at the hemp.
VIII.
Scrubbing his brain,
he cleaned to forget,
scarring the nerves with lye.
He’d rather sink into Lethe
than relive the needle to his ego.
IX.
A seed on the sand may be picked up and re-planted.
X.
Blackbirds, if I strip the poem,
will you build me a nest
at the willow-gate?
XI.
They laughed and squeezed the clay
so it ran between their fingers.
The water was cloudy,
the stones were wet.
XII.
It floats on the waves until the words wash off,
and the fish who nibble on it
dream of the desert.
XIII.
“Really not that important in the scheme of things,”
I said,
and I closed my eyes in the sun.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Footprints in the Snow
The night is cold and clear, lovely and lonely. My breath comes in shudders and gasps as I climb the hill.
I can see my house from here. We have forgotten to put up Christmas lights, but the snow on the trees and our driveway is enough to signal the season. My roof, snuggled between a slope and a cliff, is eclipsed in white.
Blinking away a film of ice and exhaustion, I adjust my backpack, my shoulders numb. It is good to smell the fallow fields, the tinge of old manure. Inhaling, I taste pine on my frozen throat.
My feet slip on the half-broken crust and I fall, collapsing in an undignified tumble of coat and scarf and hat, trying to avoid landing on my laden back.
As I struggle upright, I see the sidewalk beneath me and smell the city’s smoke. My hands are full of gravel and glass. A stranger approaches in the unbroken line of my footprints, and I am too tired to walk anymore.
I can see my house from here. We have forgotten to put up Christmas lights, but the snow on the trees and our driveway is enough to signal the season. My roof, snuggled between a slope and a cliff, is eclipsed in white.
Blinking away a film of ice and exhaustion, I adjust my backpack, my shoulders numb. It is good to smell the fallow fields, the tinge of old manure. Inhaling, I taste pine on my frozen throat.
My feet slip on the half-broken crust and I fall, collapsing in an undignified tumble of coat and scarf and hat, trying to avoid landing on my laden back.
As I struggle upright, I see the sidewalk beneath me and smell the city’s smoke. My hands are full of gravel and glass. A stranger approaches in the unbroken line of my footprints, and I am too tired to walk anymore.
Untitled (that is the actual title)
Love and I went to the fields.
(Deeply, deeply,
inky sky,
vast and a definition of absolute.
Human frailty seemed beautiful
under the tree of fate.)
Cornstalks.
(Deeply, deeply,
inky sky,
vast and a definition of absolute.
Human frailty seemed beautiful
under the tree of fate.)
Cornstalks.
Seven in the Wood
I am never going to finish this.
Petrova lived with her seven brothers and sisters in a forest. The forest was dark, and deep, and most of the trees looked odd in some way, with knotted limbs or faces. Sometimes they sprouted fruit while still holding blossoms, apparently confused about the seasons. At nights, the trees would whisper things best not heard, and chuckle darkly amongst themselves. Every morning the earth around their roots was disturbed, hinting at walking nights.
There were more animals than usual in this forest, and birds lived in every tree.
The creatures were often a little strange too, with winged squirrels and horned deer. The ground creatures avoided the trees as much as possible, not an easy task. The birds never seemed quite at ease on their perches, and were much less brightly colored than usual specimens. All the feathers were very short, perhaps to prevent them catching on the twisted branches.
The animals were very shy of humans, and Petrova, although quiet and peaceful, found it impossible to catch them for food. She usually ended up with eggs and plants, a situation that did not please her younger siblings very much. She brought home dead deer sometimes, huge things with disturbing gashes ripped out of their sides. She never went near those corpses except at noon, fearing the attackers, whatever they may have been. She had never seen anything bigger than the deer; this worried Petrova more than it calmed her.
This forest was very dense, with only one clearing. This is where the eight lived together in a ramshackle cottage. Mushrooms grew all around the cottage, a lucky state of affairs. The children, curiously enough, loved to eat these mushrooms as much as they hated all other vegetables, chomping them down at all times of the day. Although Petrova was not exactly sure what the mushrooms were, she figured that nobody had gotten ill from them yet; so she did nothing to curb their appetites. So far, her plan had worked perfectly.
The family, that is, Petrova and her younger siblings, had lost their parents years ago, and Petrova had been the sole nurturer and provider ever since. The children were half-wild, despite all of Petrova’s best efforts, and ranged about like feral cats. It was a miracle that she could keep them clothed. So Petrova did the best she could, wiping the noses when she could catch the little ones, and feeding them on the meager diet that was all she could provide.
Petrova herself was tall and dark-haired, with a permanent worry line worn into her forehead. She had very little time for herself. Her hair was knotty and her nails filthy. She rose before dawn ever day, fetching firewood and foraging for food. She was very thin and very pale. She looked far older than she should.
She loved her brothers and sisters, though, and did not mind her burden too much. She wished for someone to talk to, though, someone for company. The children had never stayed around long enough to pick up more than the basics of talking and spoke seldom. They preferred to mime what they wanted, apparently finding it to make more sense.
This ragtag family, however, did have one thing in common. All eight had extraordinary voices. Every night they would meet silently in the clearing and sing wordlessly into the night. At such times, Petrova could almost close her eyes and picture that they were a normal family, one with a mother and father. Always, though, the concert ended along with Petrova’s wishful thinking. It was the only break from reality she allowed herself.
They had lived there as long as anyone could remember, and Petrova knew that they would probably live there forever. She barely remembered her father-a stern, unsmiling man dressed in black-and could not, to her dismay, remember their mother at all. She wondered, sometimes, in those rare moments of rest, why her memory was so poor. She presumed, superstitiously, that it had something to do with the forest’s strange atmosphere. Other times she would blame it on those mushrooms and ban her charges from eating them. They would sulk so much that Petrova always relented and allowed them to eat the strange fungus again.
Their clothing was very poorly made; there were bolts of fabric locked up in a metal box in the house, but no clothing. Therefore, the unskilled Petrova was forced to make them herself. The clothes resembled sails when she had completed them; stiff and uncomfortable, with ungainly stitches stampeding crookedly up the sides. She hated both making the ugly things and wearing them; another reminder of her inability to watch over their little family properly. Her hands were too thick from life to hold the delicate needles well.
Cleaning, however, gave Petrova a sense of control in her life, so she scoured the cottage every day. This was no east task, with a dirt floor, but she attacked the job anyways. One might think that she was projecting her misery in life onto the cottage. One certainly might think that. Whatever the reason, the cottage was spotless on the inside.
On the outside, however, was a completely different story. Every bird in the forest had marked it, and its logs were scored by thousands of claw marks. Petrova tried inexpertly to fix these weaknesses. She spent many sleepless nights listening to the things outside assail the house, wondering with terror whether the next one would rip through. They never went outside after their singing concerts. Their voices seemed to make the wilder creatures of the forest angry; this was when they always assaulted the house. Petrova sometimes thought, half-seriously, that the monsters must not appreciate fine music. It is a curious fact that Petrova almost never made jokes, but when she did, they ended up being correct.
A magician eventually finds them and Petrova turns out to be a golem, if I remember correctly.
Petrova lived with her seven brothers and sisters in a forest. The forest was dark, and deep, and most of the trees looked odd in some way, with knotted limbs or faces. Sometimes they sprouted fruit while still holding blossoms, apparently confused about the seasons. At nights, the trees would whisper things best not heard, and chuckle darkly amongst themselves. Every morning the earth around their roots was disturbed, hinting at walking nights.
There were more animals than usual in this forest, and birds lived in every tree.
The creatures were often a little strange too, with winged squirrels and horned deer. The ground creatures avoided the trees as much as possible, not an easy task. The birds never seemed quite at ease on their perches, and were much less brightly colored than usual specimens. All the feathers were very short, perhaps to prevent them catching on the twisted branches.
The animals were very shy of humans, and Petrova, although quiet and peaceful, found it impossible to catch them for food. She usually ended up with eggs and plants, a situation that did not please her younger siblings very much. She brought home dead deer sometimes, huge things with disturbing gashes ripped out of their sides. She never went near those corpses except at noon, fearing the attackers, whatever they may have been. She had never seen anything bigger than the deer; this worried Petrova more than it calmed her.
This forest was very dense, with only one clearing. This is where the eight lived together in a ramshackle cottage. Mushrooms grew all around the cottage, a lucky state of affairs. The children, curiously enough, loved to eat these mushrooms as much as they hated all other vegetables, chomping them down at all times of the day. Although Petrova was not exactly sure what the mushrooms were, she figured that nobody had gotten ill from them yet; so she did nothing to curb their appetites. So far, her plan had worked perfectly.
The family, that is, Petrova and her younger siblings, had lost their parents years ago, and Petrova had been the sole nurturer and provider ever since. The children were half-wild, despite all of Petrova’s best efforts, and ranged about like feral cats. It was a miracle that she could keep them clothed. So Petrova did the best she could, wiping the noses when she could catch the little ones, and feeding them on the meager diet that was all she could provide.
Petrova herself was tall and dark-haired, with a permanent worry line worn into her forehead. She had very little time for herself. Her hair was knotty and her nails filthy. She rose before dawn ever day, fetching firewood and foraging for food. She was very thin and very pale. She looked far older than she should.
She loved her brothers and sisters, though, and did not mind her burden too much. She wished for someone to talk to, though, someone for company. The children had never stayed around long enough to pick up more than the basics of talking and spoke seldom. They preferred to mime what they wanted, apparently finding it to make more sense.
This ragtag family, however, did have one thing in common. All eight had extraordinary voices. Every night they would meet silently in the clearing and sing wordlessly into the night. At such times, Petrova could almost close her eyes and picture that they were a normal family, one with a mother and father. Always, though, the concert ended along with Petrova’s wishful thinking. It was the only break from reality she allowed herself.
They had lived there as long as anyone could remember, and Petrova knew that they would probably live there forever. She barely remembered her father-a stern, unsmiling man dressed in black-and could not, to her dismay, remember their mother at all. She wondered, sometimes, in those rare moments of rest, why her memory was so poor. She presumed, superstitiously, that it had something to do with the forest’s strange atmosphere. Other times she would blame it on those mushrooms and ban her charges from eating them. They would sulk so much that Petrova always relented and allowed them to eat the strange fungus again.
Their clothing was very poorly made; there were bolts of fabric locked up in a metal box in the house, but no clothing. Therefore, the unskilled Petrova was forced to make them herself. The clothes resembled sails when she had completed them; stiff and uncomfortable, with ungainly stitches stampeding crookedly up the sides. She hated both making the ugly things and wearing them; another reminder of her inability to watch over their little family properly. Her hands were too thick from life to hold the delicate needles well.
Cleaning, however, gave Petrova a sense of control in her life, so she scoured the cottage every day. This was no east task, with a dirt floor, but she attacked the job anyways. One might think that she was projecting her misery in life onto the cottage. One certainly might think that. Whatever the reason, the cottage was spotless on the inside.
On the outside, however, was a completely different story. Every bird in the forest had marked it, and its logs were scored by thousands of claw marks. Petrova tried inexpertly to fix these weaknesses. She spent many sleepless nights listening to the things outside assail the house, wondering with terror whether the next one would rip through. They never went outside after their singing concerts. Their voices seemed to make the wilder creatures of the forest angry; this was when they always assaulted the house. Petrova sometimes thought, half-seriously, that the monsters must not appreciate fine music. It is a curious fact that Petrova almost never made jokes, but when she did, they ended up being correct.
A magician eventually finds them and Petrova turns out to be a golem, if I remember correctly.
Office Romance
“My goodness,” said Chloe, staring at her least favorite co-worker, “I never noticed it before. Josephine’s a shark!”
“Well, of course,” said Sam. He hung over the edge of her cubicle and stole the piece of her long blond hair that had fallen onto her desk. “Experimental project from the boys upstairs. Very hush-hush. I read about it in the office newsletter.”
They stared at Josephine together; Sam only pretended to do so, instead sneaking another look at Chloe.
She chewed on a paper clip. “I suppose the teeth should have been a dead giveaway, but that weird receptionist down on 11th has filed teeth and implanted horns, so I just assumed it was something similar.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, the people on 11th are really weird. To be honest, I’m not sure they’re people. It always smells like brimstone, and I saw a guy on the elevator with a bifurcated tongue yesterday.”
“Oh, no, that’s Kevin. He’s new. Works over in Accounting. I think it’s kinda hot.” Chloe looked down at her desk. “Did you steal that strand of hair? I was saving that.”
Sam slipped the hair into his pocket. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I heard that bifurcated tongues collect a lot of bacteria.”
Chloe’s eyes went wide. “I’m against bacteria!”
Sam smiled. “As you should be.” She smiled back, and he felt a warm glow overpower his inhibitions. “Um, Chloe?”
Chloe began to gnaw on her stapler. “Yes, Sam?”
He shuffled his feet against the carpet, building up electricity. Reaching out to her, he missed and hit the metal edging on her cubicle. “Ow! Um. Anyways. Would you like . . . would you maybe go out with me sometime?”
“Oh, Sam, I’d love to! But first, I have a confession to make.” Chloe spoke around the stapler, garbling her words, then spat it out. “Sorry. I just have to tell you. . .” she looked down. “I have beaver DNA. I have to chew on things constantly, or my teeth would grow really long and I’d lose my job.”
Sam touched the back of her hand and grinned. “It’s alright, Chloe. My parents used to own a lumberyard, before they went bankrupt. Soon after, they died in a terrible high-speed bus chase. I was so heart-broken that I never sold the wood.” He clasped her hand and pulled her up from her chair. “It’s all yours.”
“Oh, Sam!” said Chloe.
“Oh, Chloe!” said Sam.
They embraced.
Josephine walked by and sneered. "You two are violating the regulations of the office. Interpersonal fraternizing is strictly forbidden.”
Chloe stuck her tongue out at her. “Aw, go suck chum.”
Pressing her flipper to her mouth, Josephine’s eyes welled up with tears. “Who told you?”
“It was in the office newspaper,” said Sam.
“I hate you!” Josephine ran into the bathroom.
Chloe winced. “Maybe we were too hard on her. I mean, after all, it’s not easy being a chimera. I was an experiment done by the boys upstairs too.”
Sam shrugged. “One time she slapped me and tore my face to pieces because I told her she couldn’t have my last blue file folder. I’m not worried.” He pulled her close again. “Now, where were we?”
Chloe turned her face up to his, then stopped, her mouth dropping open. “Did you notice?”
“What?”
“They finally figured out how to make tears in a biological construction! I’ve got to see them right away!” Chloe wriggled from his arms.
Sam frowned. “Can’t it wait just one more day?”
Chloe tipped her head to the side and thought. “Okay. But only because I’m madly in love with you and want to have your children.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” said Sam. He kissed her.
“Well, of course,” said Sam. He hung over the edge of her cubicle and stole the piece of her long blond hair that had fallen onto her desk. “Experimental project from the boys upstairs. Very hush-hush. I read about it in the office newsletter.”
They stared at Josephine together; Sam only pretended to do so, instead sneaking another look at Chloe.
She chewed on a paper clip. “I suppose the teeth should have been a dead giveaway, but that weird receptionist down on 11th has filed teeth and implanted horns, so I just assumed it was something similar.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, the people on 11th are really weird. To be honest, I’m not sure they’re people. It always smells like brimstone, and I saw a guy on the elevator with a bifurcated tongue yesterday.”
“Oh, no, that’s Kevin. He’s new. Works over in Accounting. I think it’s kinda hot.” Chloe looked down at her desk. “Did you steal that strand of hair? I was saving that.”
Sam slipped the hair into his pocket. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I heard that bifurcated tongues collect a lot of bacteria.”
Chloe’s eyes went wide. “I’m against bacteria!”
Sam smiled. “As you should be.” She smiled back, and he felt a warm glow overpower his inhibitions. “Um, Chloe?”
Chloe began to gnaw on her stapler. “Yes, Sam?”
He shuffled his feet against the carpet, building up electricity. Reaching out to her, he missed and hit the metal edging on her cubicle. “Ow! Um. Anyways. Would you like . . . would you maybe go out with me sometime?”
“Oh, Sam, I’d love to! But first, I have a confession to make.” Chloe spoke around the stapler, garbling her words, then spat it out. “Sorry. I just have to tell you. . .” she looked down. “I have beaver DNA. I have to chew on things constantly, or my teeth would grow really long and I’d lose my job.”
Sam touched the back of her hand and grinned. “It’s alright, Chloe. My parents used to own a lumberyard, before they went bankrupt. Soon after, they died in a terrible high-speed bus chase. I was so heart-broken that I never sold the wood.” He clasped her hand and pulled her up from her chair. “It’s all yours.”
“Oh, Sam!” said Chloe.
“Oh, Chloe!” said Sam.
They embraced.
Josephine walked by and sneered. "You two are violating the regulations of the office. Interpersonal fraternizing is strictly forbidden.”
Chloe stuck her tongue out at her. “Aw, go suck chum.”
Pressing her flipper to her mouth, Josephine’s eyes welled up with tears. “Who told you?”
“It was in the office newspaper,” said Sam.
“I hate you!” Josephine ran into the bathroom.
Chloe winced. “Maybe we were too hard on her. I mean, after all, it’s not easy being a chimera. I was an experiment done by the boys upstairs too.”
Sam shrugged. “One time she slapped me and tore my face to pieces because I told her she couldn’t have my last blue file folder. I’m not worried.” He pulled her close again. “Now, where were we?”
Chloe turned her face up to his, then stopped, her mouth dropping open. “Did you notice?”
“What?”
“They finally figured out how to make tears in a biological construction! I’ve got to see them right away!” Chloe wriggled from his arms.
Sam frowned. “Can’t it wait just one more day?”
Chloe tipped her head to the side and thought. “Okay. But only because I’m madly in love with you and want to have your children.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” said Sam. He kissed her.
Spilled Sprinkles
I'm really not sure why I've started this blog, or what it is about, but I do know that I like this title.
Perhaps it will be poems and bits and pieces of stories.
Perhaps it will be poems and bits and pieces of stories.
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