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Literature Text
I've always wondered about the shape of sincerity. Only once did I find it.
How? An old lady in neon blue sat at the bus stop while Aaron and I watched.
Stared.
Focused.
On the tiny purple purse, sitting in her lap.
"On three," he whispered, "we take it." And we did. She turned away, letting the wind move her head for three seconds, three seconds too long.
Aaron laughed as she searched for the bag. I opened it. What I found broke me. Inside was a letter, addressed to the cemetery. Aaron, made of steel, opened it.
He read it.
Paused.
Then threw the page away.
It flew into my hands. My brain picked up the words.
The words that sang a story of loss and a failed operation.
The words meant for her a husband buried in the earth.
The words of an old lady's heart.
It was their 37th anniversary.
How? An old lady in neon blue sat at the bus stop while Aaron and I watched.
Stared.
Focused.
On the tiny purple purse, sitting in her lap.
"On three," he whispered, "we take it." And we did. She turned away, letting the wind move her head for three seconds, three seconds too long.
Aaron laughed as she searched for the bag. I opened it. What I found broke me. Inside was a letter, addressed to the cemetery. Aaron, made of steel, opened it.
He read it.
Paused.
Then threw the page away.
It flew into my hands. My brain picked up the words.
The words that sang a story of loss and a failed operation.
The words meant for her a husband buried in the earth.
The words of an old lady's heart.
It was their 37th anniversary.
Literature
I don't know how to write about God
I spent twenty minutes
arranging the wine, bread, and tablecloth,
and another hour in the garden
picking flowers, all for Jesus.
I felt the room breathing with its
own life before I ever even sat
down on the couch.
Last year I spilled the wine,
this time the bread falls off the plate,
cracking on the floor, Christ's broken body -
I'm so imperfect, small, a wailing babe.
I want to promise I'll be good
for the rest of my life, but that is impractical.
You and I know better.
You know there's too much
settled dust on this body,
just as there was
on the fine porcelain dishes
mother pulled from the china cabinet.
My footprints are muddy,
Literature
sometimes i am
sometimes i am a little bird singing to you from a wooden box fragile colorful and small sometimes i am a roaring river carving my way through the earth wild foaming and reckless. sometimes i am stained glass pieces of a shattered church window broken sharp and scattered. and sometimes i am only bones water and atoms and i do not know what to make of myself.
Literature
Djay
I sit within my private quarters of one each and everyday…. selected random tunes to into my ears arrestingly play I am my own disc jockey self-serving DJay all night, all day doesn’t matter I call the shots and tunes Mixtape vibes for myself Tribe-musique unique taste…. earmaggots and hearfeasts headfirst soundboard flirts…. Who is seducing who now hear? Does that even matter? In the soundproof chamber no glass shatters you hear the music within the room you sit, but none shall beyond it…. gradually you begin to lose your voice and its absorbed into the music and the singing starts to sound…. …a lot like you….
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One of my characters, Connor, telling a bit of his past. Hope you enjoy.
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what a way to tell it