The Fishwoman

As she put the old, time-stained kettle on the stove, her throat swelled shut & another wave of heat filled her where gills should have been.

She had dreams of being a fish.
She never cared to wonder where the dreams came from, they just did.

Like her husband.

The fishwoman never had a certain direction, and always ended up caught in a thick, rough straw net. It never bothered her, not even when they would filet her alive and leave her wet & bleeding life… rent upon their decks.

Nothing ever seemed to bother her, asleep or awake, she just kept swimming.
But her blood boiled & bubbled underneath the skin, causing bends where thoughts should have been.

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The Fishwoman

Elephants Chasing Moths

I tried to follow her.
Well, no, I tried to catch up to her.

I first saw her in a downtown bar, but she wasn’t typical.
I was sitting in a corner…trying harder to look like a struggling writer in a bar than actually trying to write. I looked up to survey if anyone had noticed me, and instead I noticed her.

She had cold air hooked into her like a fog machine, and she ordered two shots of tequila, an american beer, and downed all three as if she was on stage at a talent show.

She paid in crumpled cash and rattled change, twisting and stomping out of the place like a bass note.

As soon as she left, I felt her absence choking me. I pushed my papers together, fumbled with my worn leather wallet, threw way more than enough money down and blundered after her…elephants chasing moths.

She was a mote in the distance, the tracks framing her perfectly in my memory.
I tried to catch up, but I knew there was no catching her.
You either ran on her time or not at all.

I wonder if she lives on those tracks….or if they’re only a way home.

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Elephants Chasing Moths

The Visionary

“There was a time…there was a time…there was a time…”
The words echoed and repeated infinitely, digging into the veins of the space and inhabiting the air like thick tar.His face pulls at itself, a tic beginning in the neck, distorting the skin & opening the mouth into a half-snarl, teeth flashing briefly. The intensity causes an arm to raise, fingers reduced to grotesque, disproportionate claws.

He could see the birth of the universe.
The golden threads, the shifting diamonds, the colors that lit his skin on fire.
He was awake for the first time in millennia.

As he lay dying on the sidewalk, a child watches him from inside her mother’s apartment, eating ice cream & dreaming about the snow.

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The Visionary