Saturday, July 26, 2008
CINNAMON HOURS
It came at them like a backwards spun voice: uneasy, nearly identifiable, but still rapidly strange. Ghosts, they thought. Maybe. All they had was the sound of two human breaths, and above them, whatever was left after their inner selves had been expelled. Three more hours, they mouthed to each other, and then we can end it.
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2 comments:
I love these small beautiful moments the best. You can die happy now. You have made several beautiful things.
They do tend to get short when I don't want to write them. I think August may be the month of the single-stanza story.
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