Found herself out in the cold,
open to faces which once made her numb,
remembering the last chance she had before all was sold.
Grieving the potential loss,
it wasn’t in her nature, she refused to succumb,
victory was not out of reach and she bore her cross
emblazoned with the name of the other’s drum.
When the actor faltered on stage, the entire audience noticed.
That was a little less important than how all the rest of the cast noticed it was coming and tried everything in their power to redirect it. Everything to get the actor to get back on track before it was too late.
Yet even the most professional of actors couldn’t hide it when their leading man had a heart attack on stage.
Of course the entire audience noticed.
When they were small, they used to sneak into the kitchen at night. They never went for the cookie jar. They never went into their parent’s secret stash of whatever it was that they weren’t allowed to have yet. No, they opened the fridge and took a bite out of a cube of butter.
Part of it was because butter was delicious. But another part of it was because they would never get to do that when either of their parents were awake.
Then, of course, they grew up.
“Should I eat this stick of butter?” they asked their elder sibling.
“Do you want to?” was the response.
As they decided they wanted to, they did so. Despite being an adult, not much had changed.
Something about this was a bad idea, but looking back on the lumberjack chasing them through the forest, Mark figured it was too late to change his mind.
His little brother kept shooting a look at him. The sixteen year old didn’t have the breath to ask it, but Mark knew the question he wanted to ask was “why”.
“Don’t panic, I’ve got this under control,” he managed to wheeze out.
Tom didn’t look like he believed him. Mark dragged him around to the other side of a tree.
Taking a couple big gulps of air, Tom hit him in the arm. “Wh-”
They waited for the axe-armed man to run by their location. Yep, too late to change his mind. Holding Tom’s forearm, Mark turned them around back toward the cabin.
He noted the wallet while seated at the bench.
It was laying there, the leather soaking through in the puddle. He wasn’t sure if it had dropped there recently or not, because he hadn’t been paying attention to it until this point.
Still, it was best not to leave it there. He made to stand up.
Then a teenager ran, eyes frantic. When he saw the wallet, he made a beeline for it, picking it up as he kept going.
That was that. The man sat back down on the bench and stayed out of the rain.
There was no need to set an alarm.
She heard it through the walls, as she did every morning. The screeching of whatever animal. Well, she knew what animal it was. During the day, he was a very nice dog. She enjoyed seeing him from over the fence, wiggling his tail and the rest of him.
Yet at six o’clock in the morning, he didn’t understand why anyone was still asleep and had to wake up the neighborhood.
Getting out of bed, she opened her window and, after making sure the window was closed, aimed a rock from her pile at the sill. She struck it dead on. She readied another, but didn’t throw it as the movement from the curtains told her the person on the other side was actually getting up.
With a sigh, she got ready for work.
Embers burn within my chest,
mistaking me for something less,
believing me to hold excess
relief somewhere outside my quest.
Acceptable as one might find this feeling,
crushing is it to me, whilst all is sealing
embers burning, within my chest, help me now, my last request.
Tail left, tail right
On my arm you lay your head
Gifting me with eyes so bright
Ending hunger by stealing my bread
Truth be told, I’m not as mad
Hound, I should be, because that’s bad
Enduring you, this lovely warm fluff
Rescued me you did, but my love’s still tough
The attack party blocked the way into the nothingness, waiting for the moment he approached.
Their helmets shone gold, shaped as skulls that completely covered their domes. Silver scaled bucklers that attached to each of their forearms blocked all of their torsos completely. Thick robes to keep out the sands hung down in lavenders and midnight blues down to leather boots.
The scimitars in their other hands did not gleam. They were already dull. Filthy, but not with fresh blood. With old blood. Old blood with no time to clean it off before reaching this location.
They were to attack, but waited at their point of arrival as he came to stop them.
He stood no chance.
For some reason, my hands get cold first.
I find it strange, because when I’m typing my hands are the most active part of me. I would think my feet would get cold first. Especially when I’m not wearing any socks. But no. It is always my fingers, creeping down to the palms of my hands.
It has to do with the weather. Never occurs in the summer. Then again, there is no part of me that likes the summer heat. Yet I suppose I always forget during the summer that when things finally start to cool, my hands will be the first victims of winter.
Gloves that get in the way of my writing? I’m not sure why it slows me down so much.
While I rejoice the cold in many other ways, I must prepare once more to deal with my hands. My hands which for some reason are cold blooded.