Archives for category: prose
She was born on a Saturday. A sunny day. The clouds came as she grew older. The tears rolled. Whys rattled in her head. Teeth gritted with frustration. Where was the break in the clouds?
She was born on a Saturday. Everyday she felt pieces of herself dying. The underside of dark clouds were her ceiling. Dreams were a mirage.
She was born on a Saturday. Early July. But inside she felt like mid December. Frozen over dreams. She was born on a Saturday.

timemanagementtipsThe smoke rose like wispy serpents, fiery tongues licked the ground. Buildings burned and a barbecue smell waft through the air. Somewhere amid the charcoal rubble an amber eye popped open. Then a leg in tattered slacks wiggled beneath a board. An arm shot through the rubble. After a few minutes she was free.  Tiny sparks danced on her corduroy sleeve, her midnight curls matted with blood and sweat. She was cut and bruised, but she would soon heal. She hobbled among the destruction, a twisted unicycle here, an engulfed vehicle there. She stopped and covered her nose with the collar of her shirt.  She stared at the gutted frame of the wheel of time. It no longer spun. Panic began to drum inside her chest. She stepped backwards. Since the beginning of time the wheel has spun around and around. “Hello,” she called out. She squinted her eyes, scanning the smoke filled horizon. Where were all the people?  A patch of blue fell from above.

“Oh my stars.”  Another piece of blue fell near her shoe. Time was unraveling.  “No. No.” She raked her hands across her damp curls. “This isn’t good.” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. A faint ticking sound reached her ears. She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket. The timepiece, it was ticking. Albeit a half second too slow. “There’s still time.” A smile broke like a rule across her face.  She started to run, her legs moving with a sense of purpose. She needed to find the time capsule.

She was on a desolate street with abandoned cars with flung open car doors. She looked around. She took a step, something squeaked beneath her foot. A faded rubber duck. She wondered about the child it belonged to. She picked it up. There in the distance was the time capsule protruding from the side of a building. She couldn’t recall how she got so far away. As she made her way toward the time capsule, a figure swaddled in black stood between her and the time capsule. The hood pulled back, revealing the cherub face of a boy who had not reached puberty. “Well that’s a clever costume.” Tesla clenched her fist.

“For the time being,” the boy replied. “I don’t want to fight you. We are the same, you and I. Two sides of a coin.” The boy grinned but the smile didn’t reach his steel gray eyes.

Tesla spat on the ground. “I’m nothing like you. You want to destroy all the world. There are people here.”

“The world was once destroyed by a flood. And yet there are still people here. I think it’s time to start anew again.” The boy pulled out a gold gleaming pocket watch. It swung like a pendulum.

“Where did you get that?” The boy laughed, emitting a metallic sound. With a swish of his cloak he headed toward the time capsule. Tesla sprang forward grabbing for the trailing cloak. The boy spun around and elbowed Tesla in the face. She recovered but not quick enough. The boy was already in the time capsule, a triumphant grin on his face. He disappeared in a blink.

Tesla’s hand balled into a fist, she opened it. And there was the pocket watch. Now the ends of her cut mouth curved upward. There was still time to save everything and everyone.


The Barksdale Pigeons

The Barksdale pigeons were the foulest of the fowl. There were four of them. Four feathered terrors who ruled the stoop. If you don’t believe me just take a gander.

Twyla, the sparrow was most delighted to have a piece of cornbread betwixt her beak. She hopped and tilted her head to the side and gave a sweet little tweet. Suddenly a shadow loomed over Twyla. She dropped her cornbread. Coo. The ominous trill filled the space. “Give me that cornbread.”

Twyla eyes grew to the size of sunflower seeds. It was one of those foul Barksdale pigeons. “Are you daft? Give me that cornbread.” The pigeon’s head jerked left and right.

Twyla pick up her cornbread. It was only one of them. Right now she felt as big as a crow. “No,” she trilled. “It’s mine.” She flapped her wings.

The other three pigeons landed next to their brother. “She giving you trouble?” the brothers asked.

“She’s giving me her cornbread.” The brother pecked the top of Twyla’s head. She dropped the cornbread. The brothers all made a beeline for the cornbread. Twyla jumped back. The Barksdale pigeons were all feathers as they peck away at her food. Twyla stared, the top her teeny noggin smarting. One of the Barksdale pigeons looked up. “Scat away feathered mouse.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. She flapped her wings and flew away. Make someday those feathered rats would pick on the wrong bird.

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Still. Silent. Planted firm between a rock and dreams. Patience of a pebble. No surrender of dreams.

Standing on the edge of hope and disappointment. So easily torn between keep trying and stop trying. The winds of doubt blow dreams like scraps of paper.

No matter how long it takes, never cut loose that passion that burns like fire. A fire inside your very soul. Snip. Snip the naysayers. And believe in your decade long dream coming to fruition.