Your Shoes Fit Me Just Fine
prose
When I Iay in your room surrounded by all the things you think makes you you I feel it too. And I can be happy looking at a framed photo of a couple of kids, wondering where they’ve been. So is it alright if I sit by your shoes and pretend that they fit me fine? Just for a small bit of time until I slip back into what’s mine.
Rot
a short story
ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ; ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ. ɪᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. ɪ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀꜱᴇ. ... ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ—ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʏᴇꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪʟᴛʜʏ, ʙʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴘʀʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʀᴇʟʏ, ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ ᴀᴛ ʟᴀꜱᴛ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ! ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ’ꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ɪ ꜱʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʟᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʜ—ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇɴᴄᴀꜱᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀɴ—ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ. ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ. ɪ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ʀᴏᴛ—ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴀɪᴠᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ, ꜱᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴅɪʀᴛ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɴᴏᴡ ɪ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ʀᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ. ɪ ʀᴇᴇᴋ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛ—ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʟ ꜱᴛᴇɴᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɢʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ. ɪ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ! ɴᴏ! ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ɢʀɪᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ɴᴏ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏɪʟ-ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴜᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜʟꜱɪᴠᴇ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʀʀᴏᴡ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪꜱɢᴜꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ. ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴏᴡ ɪɴ ꜱɪᴢᴇ. ʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴡ ꜱᴏʀʀɪᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘɪᴛɪꜰᴜʟ. ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ’ꜱ ꜱᴏʀʀᴏᴡꜰᴜʟ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴘᴇᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ɢɪɢᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴏʜ, ʜᴏᴡ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʟᴀʀɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴅꜰᴜʟ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴀʀʀɪᴄᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴜꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ᴍᴀɴ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪ’ᴅ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴄʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴍᴀʟʏ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. ʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴍᴀɴ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴍʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ɪᴛ. ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀᴋᴇ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ. ʜᴇ ꜱQᴜᴇᴇᴢᴇꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴛᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ—ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ʜᴇ ʜᴇʟᴅ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴀʟᴍ! ᴏʜ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ! ɪᴛ ꜰɪʟʟꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ʙᴜʀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟꜱ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋᴜʟʟ; ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ. ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ! ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀᴍ ɪ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇ? ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀᴍ ɪ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ? ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴏɴ ᴍᴇ, ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴇɴᴄʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴇ. ɪ ꜱᴍᴇʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ ɪᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ.
ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ! ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ! ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴇxᴀᴍɪɴᴇ ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ?
ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ꜰʀᴇᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ ʜɪᴍ! ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴇ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ.
ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋ: ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴜʟᴛɪᴇꜱ, ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ!"
“ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ.” ᴏʜ, ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ! ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ɴᴏʀ ɪ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴋɪɴ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴ. ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ! “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ …” ʏᴇꜱ, ɪ ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴇɴ, ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. ʏᴇꜱ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ—ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ! ʜɪꜱ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ. ᴏʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ; ʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡꜱ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴇᴇʟʏ. ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ? ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɪʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪɴᴀʟ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɪʟ. ɪᴛ’ꜱ ʀᴇᴘᴜʟꜱɪᴠᴇ. ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ? ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ, ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛɪᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰɪʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ; ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ—ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ᴏʜ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴ. ɪ ᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʜɪᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ. “ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ” ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀɪᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʙʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴍᴇ.
ɪᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀꜱᴇ, ꜰᴏʀ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ. “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴜʟᴛɪᴇꜱ, ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ɪɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ, ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇʜᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ!"
To Another Destruction
a poem
Now I see rain as drops of blood because rivers flood
And all I do is wait for the day to come
To watch the world sink and make way
For another power
A funny new way of destruction
Life can fade
Lets all go away and give it up
To another destruction
My momma calls and daddy writes
You been gone some time
I’m tryna solve a problem
Be back in a little while
To save the world for the next destruction
Plum Problem
a short story
It’s that time of the year again when Miss Rin brings me plums. I’ve never seen Miss Rin beyond my front porch. She used to come every other Saturday when I first moved in. Now she comes both Saturdays and sometimes the Sundays after. I like to imagine that behind the little lilac house, sits a gigantic garden home to only plum trees. In the mornings, Miss Rin delicately attends to her garden while Mister Rin prepares plum tarts.
I don’t have the heart to tell Miss Rin I detest plums. I threw up on them once as a kid. “I’m so happy you moved into the neighborhood! No one here accepts my plums. They won’t even try them! These folk prefer their fancy store bought plums.” Miss Rin said to me on the first Saturday. So I take her plums. Some days, I give them to my parents or friends. Other days, I let them sit until they rot. Today, my kitchen reeks of rot. I fear she comes to my door too often. I do not know enough mouths to consume this mountain of plums.
It’s Wednesday morning when I decide to toss the rotted plums. I deep clean the kitchen, getting rid of all odor when I hear a knock on my door. It’s Miss Rin. She has never come on a Wednesday.
Vows
prose
It would not make sense anymore - if we laid on the driveway and looked up at the stars. Your dad, our bodyguard: standing guard. He looks out and up to connect our words to the stars he once saw. I try hard to remember what we said and why it felt so big yet it’s become forgettably small. They were bright and vast. How were the stars so abundant in the polluted sky? I never see them like that anymore. Was it just that night? It wouldn’t make sense … for us to lay on the pavement, pretending the world waits for our word. The night we were no longer bound, while your dad kept us safe from the unnamed wretched things he promised exists. When we thought it was fun to construe ourselves, leaving the next ten years with no time empty, no moment without thought. There is no longer day and night nor locked doors. Yet it’d be weird if we rest our heads on the pavement once more. Because the stars are always there, night and day. Sometimes I wonder if it’s today. Am I there? Are you bound? Are there violet petals in your hair? Does your image still matter on this holy day? I want to tell you “no” but who am I to assume you still need those words from so long ago. I’ve actually never seen a chocolate wedding cake. I hope none of it ends up on your face. I imagine you’d think of me when I’m dead. Imagine we all did in synchronized existence. You once asked if I’d be there no matter how far or how long we will become. It was something about childhood friends. Some part of us will always be that kid so our friendship always exists? You couldn’t have possibly said all of that on our last closing shift. But let's keep pretend. Like I still know your every move. Do you still hold me close to your heart? Because I do.