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A story that goes nowhereThe frigid winter air filled James’ lungs. It was a welcome departure from the hot stale interior of his mind. James looked around twice, and took a few steps forward. Snow crunched, breath hung in the air like ghosts. He looked down at the tiny girl standing next to him, clutching a handful of his jeans in her hand. She looked up. Her innocence shone like glory on a saint.
A sickly yellow streetlight was all that illuminated what could have been a street, or just another expanse of unmolested snow. James knew where he was, why he was here. His sister never asked.
His lank legs carried him along what must have been a sidewalk. Every footprint he left in the snow was followed by four tiny ones.
“Here” he stopped. His voice was deep and weathered. One wouldn’t expect to hear that kind of voice from a 17 year old. His sister hadn’t noticed his abrupt halt. She ran into the back of his leg.
Rows of houses they had passed, and this one was no different. Snow dr
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More