Tiny Odd Pics Fiction & Poems
He detailed the dispensation of every finger. Bones. Major organs. Where to bury his eyes — a Malibu beach. For years I kept Marty on ice. Years. Who knew Marty had that sort of testament?
Marty was more than a snitch. He was family. A last request is a brother’s duty.
I’m digging a grave, son. My life’s work laid bare. A macabre undertaking, but I’ve excavated this plot with an archaeologist’s care, with fine brushes and twine lines. Every artifact was artfully placed.
But who will fill your grave, I ask.
The old man bends brittle and weeps.
Not I!
For breakfast, Jayne and Smithy sample strawberry, blueberry, and peach flavored Frills.
Smithy removes sleep suppressors from his eyes. Jayne? Is that a neural stimulator? It’s holiday! Abner should rest. Trimester exams won’t start for another hour.
Jayne keeps the device cupped to her stomach.
She knows.
Every minute counts.
Our flat Earth proved simpler.
But we couldn’t wrap our heads around those unrepentant cartographers. We toasted swift journeys and shipped their brigs over the horizon.
As expected, those rascals never found the bearing home. Their skulls roll around dry ocean beds.
Oh, we dammed the rivers. Another easy fix.
I mistake a life full of empty kisses, spotting my lips. The merry-go-round of affairs.
The letters stop coming ending in xxx’s and ooo’s. You should visit, the kids are growing.
Then I bed one bastard too many. He sights my heart like hunting quail. I tremble in tall grass.
Last night Bernard faced the salad. He unwedged its bowl from the fridge and wept over crisp lettuces.
Then he dreamed of Beatrice whisking a vinaigrette while he erupted over football.
This morning he reread the note. You should take care of yourself now.
What did she mean? Not that?
Alone with her cats Nora addresses them while she studies the telly. What rubbish! What trash! Those people! Tsk, tsk!
The cats attend Nora with equal dissatisfaction.
Before falling, Archangel Tveriel– Nora calls her Fluffermuffin– would have seared the fat from her bones. Now she thinks, there are worse hells.
Jack and Jill first thrilled to kill when they impaled their father.
Mum died next. As you’d expect, they swore, “Let’s see to each other.”
Jack fell down on a garden trowel, not once or twice–but thrice–while dear Jill mistook her pills, tumbling into the hereafter.
A Hungarian dulcimer hangs above the lintel. It’s said that travelers stained by blood will produce a dour note. Such people are always welcomed with mead and sent to restful beds.
A spacious pillow awaits their heads. As always the innkeeper departs through the rear door.
His hounds sing brightly.
What is corporeal love, after all? Love of a corpse. Spiritual love is conspiracy. Dinner plates, nail clippings, your damp hair on my pillow — all soon discarded.
Our love was whispers and eye-gazing. The breath of words poisoned these lips.
Nothing is real but this kiss. Dream of me, sweet.