Thanks! I hadn’t even realized it’d gotten so high! Thanks to all of you guys for listening to it!
They drop their bags on the ground hard enough to leave craters that encompass their footprints. These are the only signs they were there; the craters and the bags. The craters are round and the bags contain nothing but air.
What they exactly are, no one knows. There are no footprints to identify them by.
There is a quarter in my sock
That jingles when I walk
Because my friends bought me drinks
And made me keep the change
Jealous orchards drop apples on my feet as I walk by because they can’t touch me any other way. I walk on the sidewalk and they reach over to give me what they can. I was taught when I was young to steer clear of the soil because the roots have a tendency to grip at the ankles and yank people back, back back back into the trunk of the tree. But I have been taught not to walk by the trees so they throw apples instead and call through falling leaves.
I love apples.
Thanks so much!
It’s an idea I’ve been messing with for awhile now and I’m glad it came out well. I’m really glad you liked it too!
The moon has tea in her garden until the sun comes to visit late in the day as she always does. It’s rather lonely, but the lilies keep the moon company, reaching towards her touch when they are starved of the sun. The moon has never been as good with the plants as the sun.
The sun sits down on her plastic yellow lawn chair and the moon gives her a kiss on the forehead. They sit and talk for a few minutes, sometimes about important things, sometimes about the stupidity of the mortals they watch over, sometimes about each other’s eyes. But it’s only a few minutes before the moon heads off to the sky and the sun heads in to refill the kettle.
She’s up all night waiting for the moon to come home. She doesn’t wander the garden like the moon. She sits at the table instead, pouring herself more tea and tapping her fingers on the clouds.
And then the moon returns.
They’re running a little late, brushing only for a second, holding hands. But then they revolve away to the sky and the table.
Abel sits in the back seat of the car with earbuds expelling the sound of his brother’s words, baritone and lush and hypnotic. The words drip down his face like fingers drifting away. Cain tries to make crops grow in the ears like he does in the ground, twists roots around until they’ve gripped the mind tight. Abel is more than used to blocking them out.
His forehead lays anointed with bloody crosses and thorny crowns, but he’s accustomed to the way they tangle and stain his hair, sticking with him until he gives up and falls asleep with them left on. They never come off anyway so what’s the point?
Abel scratches at the tattoo on his arm. Screw the Mark of Cain, the Marks of Abel are much more defined, much more beautiful. A cross on his ankle (It was his first tattoo. It was always the one he cared about most.). A list of names down his chest of every person he’s ever lost. A rosary spiraling up his arm in the form of a dragon squeezing the circulation to a halt. He always did like animals.
More than Cain at least.
And that is all that matters in the end. The car comes to a stop and the brothers offer what they have. Cain does not have enough.
Abel dies and Cain tattoos his first name onto his chest a day later. Cain is marked on the forehead, a bright bloody cross to mirror his brother. In some way, Cain knows that Abel would have hated it. It would have been too much like his brother’s.
But it is still enough for Abel.
He was better than Cain at least.
I have a castle clenched between my teeth
and a moat held in my hands
blood splattered ‘cross my tongue
and chapped, cracked lips
as red as fragrant sin and man
dripping into cupped palms
There is a point where the earth bleeds into the sky,
Sewn together by God’s sutures
Where can I drink the blood of the horizons,
So I can create a sky out of the space between my fingers
And a world of my eyes