prose time

Hey, like Jeff, I too celebrate the funk of Friday the 13th. But I celebrate prose style! Yeah! Ain't that wacky!

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Christopher Savage

lord knows, she said as a whisper, it hasn’t been easy to live this year. I wanted to think of something else to say, but it was wooden cupboards banging around the eaves, you know, she began, it isn’t that I needed from you a brick garden for my elms, I needed, and she stopped. it began to rain, so slick, across many yellow slanted rooftops of this coast, I should be clear, she stated, starting anew, clearing her throat, her bashful eyes, the torpor of a middle child so sullen, it isn’t, well, I’m not so sure how to say this. you know the feeling of flying? or can imagine it? that’s me. and you, she pointed arrow-like to her grand empty cardboard box in the center of her living room, are that, an object so simple. I mean, I don’t try to say simple, I just want to say, she bit her lip. the lightning pang of a thousand different children. you are a grove of pumpkins. a patch, I replied, and she wigged her head. a patch of unlove, of anti-cool. something along those lines. basically, baby, get up on my side or get down in the valley and huddle on your stomach. it’s ugly, so fast and clean she washed her hand over my brow and kissed my cheek, and if it isn’t ugly, then she snapped and turned about, embracing the invisible window and becoming the storm, it’s not worth mentioning. I think. she slapped the pane of glass and began to cry.