“. . . 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.
Friendship is a whore of a term, strangely broad and encompassing in its accommodation. Being the perfect term for the relationship between two or more souls bound in true loyalty and familiarity as it is a term for describing a situation of two kites sharing the same space at first-meet, soaring together in mid-sky, borne up by rising sheets of warm air only to fall away the moment the sheets disintegrate.
“So wassup?” She leaned over to wipe my face, trickling sweat I didn’t even know was there. “You look so …
All that was two years ago . . . Today, my bed was all soaked. Not from pee but from …
Within the night . . . The moon sends her breath lending beams true inadequate spectrum that doesn’t reach the …
The discourse of the concept of feminism flared rapidly in recent times with many writers and analysts holding copyright maces …