On a photographic shoot of broken homes/families this morning, I found a wallet in the street with bloody fingernails tucked into a pocket.
In half of the mannequin’s hand there were tattered bits of plastic, and some dirt smears ground into its plastic palm.
When the larger eggs were poked open, we ran, unexpectedly inundated with the tides of young spiders spilling out from the pierced shells.
My instructor assisted me in scaling back the pale areas of the skin with a scalpel, leaning in very closely to scrutinize this post-mortem.
So I have to go edit again. I trust him a lot. He doesn’t lie to me because he’s for some reason a really good guy.
My agent told me “more” when he read the manuscript and arranged for a one-room cabin in Troutdale where he wants me to edit for two days.
With my cracked skin shining in the reflection in the display window I leaned in closer so that my face filled up that of the mannequin.
In my hands I held a few gifts intended to pass off to a sea anemone. I could tell every time I spotted it that it was the same anemone.
People were mumbling outside the sandbanks about the doors being locked. The library had apparently canceled our club meeting in the sea.
I dreamed of the bridge collapsing underneath us. The car began to bounce lightly at first, then shook more forcefully as we waited for it.
A broken toy in my hands, standing at the entrance to an empty lot. I throw the toy forward, where it lands on bare, cracked concrete.
Those who remained crying in the downstairs hall were left to their own devices, and the top two floors were vacated and sealed off.
Noticing the door leading into the private library had been unlatched, and upon peeking inside, I could see the professor’s fallen body.
Poor pelican / half devil.
Johnathon Ford (Unwed Sailor) is the best person I have ever known. I miss touring. Photography is so expensive that I can barely travel.
There was a stout little bumblebee flying about just now while I was doing laundry. Then it got itself caught in a spiderweb. Very pretty.
We trusted nothing of the song that drifted in, supposing it had come from the mausoleum in the yard over the fence.