Cocoa puffs on milk on metal

He eats teeth for breakfast.
Literally.
He crunches them up, teeth on teeth. The sound is not not reminiscent of my daughter, 10-years-old and almost braces-free, eating her cereal every morning before school. Stale cocoa puffs on milk on metal.
“Most go for the young ones, but I know better. The older ones are softer, more pliable.”
I’m afraid, obviously. But the feeling fades and is replaced by urgency. It’s a rollercoaster of terror’s panic and survival’s adrenaline. I’m wondering how long I can keep this up before I pass out.
Focus, I think. Cocoa puffs on milk on metal.

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Rachel

She doesn’t wear makeup.

She’s a photographer. She thinks too hard, takes herself too seriously, but her stuff’s good.

She’s wise, she could be twice her age.

She’s bright, sharp, she’s vulnerable, she lets you in. Within half an hour you know volumes about her.

She knows she’s pretty, but hasn’t got a clue.

She’s obsessed with her work. She’ll be famous.

She reminds me of Joni Mitchell.

She’s focused, intense, dismissive of distractions.

She’s a good listener, a good talker. Great eyes.

She’ll get you talking about something and before you realize it you’re spilling your guts.

She’s alright.

Frigates

There was this moment. I was walking along the beach and saw a swarm of them. Maybe fifty. Hovering, swooping, fighting. At the epicenter was a man in a faded, threadbare t-shirt that said “Jose’s fishing trips”, kneeling in the sand with a knife knuckle deep in a fish’s gills. He was filleting it with quick, expert slashes and throwing the rest to the birds. I sat next to him, surrounded by the insane flurry overhead, feeling the wing beats of these dinosaurs on my face, staring at those pin-sharp beaks feeling lucky not to be a scrap of fish. 

Why we are not together (by Berend)

In my dream last night I saw the two of us, walking off along a tree-lined promenade from centuries past, in summer. You held my hand. Did you love me? You meant no harm, letting your nails dig into my flesh. Something behind us, invisible, put us to fright. We ran, holding hands, away from what we did not know, on into the unknown. There was nothing beyond the promenade: when we reached the end, we would fall out of the world.

 

Did you see us, my love? Holding hands, walking, then running? Is that why we are not together?

Happy New Year (By Sierra Donahue)

I ushered in the New Year with a long, hot shower. Later I would reason the metaphorical premise of the act – washing away the sins of the past year to emerge renewed. But I just wanted naked warmth to hide in four tight, surrounding walls. Undisturbed besides the water drowning my thoughts.

 

But a shower is not like a rainstorm in that thoughts are inflamed instead of drowned so the unwelcome musings strut the walkways of tired minds like tacky parade floats chucking candies past adults resisting the urge to impale some half fulfilled dream on leaky, polka dot umbrellas.