The morning it happened, was like any other. He was driving. They were headed for a resort, a weekend getaway, for a taste of ocean air and night. It was sunrise and little sparks of light were shooting at him from behind trees. She was by his side, they were arguing about something he couldn’t remember. It was intense. He got to the turn… took it…
And here we are… like lightning tousled clouds before a storm.
… Seven rains after…
Originally posted on THE VOICE:
“The public is increasingly disgusted with a steady diet of defamation, and prepared to reward those…
While we thought of droplets, she meant storms.
“. . . In time, when eve’ comes, the banished spools of worms we birth in the darkness of our closets and expel, soon become serpents, rear their heads and slither back home.” – Limn
Submit; allow her streams wash through,
In this continuum;
Too late. Mr. Marcus had seen us. He grinned at me and called out in his rather feigned Italian accent… “señor Rita… Approach the front of the class”.
As I did, he smiled at me, which was rather irksome, that evil smile that never bode well for anyone.
On most evenings like this one when he returned to his sparsely furnished one room apartment from work a little after four o’clock, he would make supper for one and settle into the only sofa in his room with a paperback. This evening, he thought awhile, then changed his occupation; switching the book for his phone.