Something covered his face, a flash of green, of something grotesque— something cartoon bright and monstrous, like a grinning snake or sharp-chinned goblin. The screen door's springs screeched, rusty. The hard slam sang out a full acre, calling rise to the cricket and frog songs from the marshland nearby. Fresh windrows were long, thin slashes between the house and … Continue reading Augury (at childhood’s end)
Tag: c. mcdaniel
The place smelled like rust, from pipes overhead. It was hell when you got that scent up your nose, when the smell settled in your mouth. There were no locks on the door, so anyone could enter, all. Old paper boxes, clumped newspaper grew mildew and something else, something noisome that clung to our hair … Continue reading Katabasis
There’s a metallic buzz under the nighttime sound, the sundown hum— the scratchy beating of wings, like cross-legged sitting, singing into whirling metal blades. It’s a static voice, an electric device pressed hard against a wounded, smokey throat to crackle thoughts. I shoo it from my ears like flies when it draws too near, when I am … Continue reading Temenos
“He has been called the Father of all the Gods, but most of his children have been stillborn.” -Saki, from The Music on the Hill She stole grapes from the market, the darkest ones with seeds to spit after— the fat, purple ones with tight skin pulled over meaty flesh, round, ready to split. She half-expected to pluck … Continue reading Black Sun
Goddess of Open Mouths
"I dig because I am hungry" – Margaret Atwood, from Digging (Selected Poems, 1965 – 1975) I was nineteen when I first saw the ocean. My fingers locked with my lover’s that night, and the wet grate of sand on my feet was a new satisfaction. She was nervous. I held her hand, felt her thumb rub … Continue reading Goddess of Open Mouths
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