Don’t be scared of those seven tigers. They only long to see the twinkling of wet jungle leaves. Look at them, dearest, aren’t they brilliant? Jewels left to drain out with the stale margaritas tossed out of their flamingo
Category: Spring 2018
Maybe I went back out to the car for your book just to hear the sound of the rain, just to let the smell of woodsmoke curl at my nostrils, tendrils of a different life mixing with my own.
It sounded like a wet melon, the splitting of his “dear” brother’s skull. This was originally published in Spring 2018 edition of The Helix.
i. sinewy synapse, snap. you don’t look old. (feel that) ii. play it in that seven/four-scuff-the-floor play it with that THUNDERCAT! play it in that “squik-squik-squik,” eke it out, stick. kick_kick— …like that, LIKE THAT! iii. HIT! iv. wet
Skull deadbolted, but still It knocks with the fist clenched white and the knuckles stained crimson. (This is merely for humor, as It knows a power: the premium penchant
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Boy shakes a branch for Sakura confetti, beginning the Spring parade, the vernal celebration— floats of bustling bees hop with breeding hares, sway to surging songs within the throats of birds; and all throughout the grasses, a tremulous design:
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