My Tea

When I returned a demon with whiskers sticking out of his funnily bent ears had crawled out from under the bed. He was sipping my tea.

“Hey! That’s my earl grey.”

Wrinkling that awkward little nose, he licked the skin about his mouth. Wet leather on sundried pavement. I squinted at the sound.

The voice was even worse. “Actually, it’s berry hibiscus.” He revealed six jagged points, surprisingly white.

I didn’t return the grin. Finally he scowled, kicking my beverage to carpet. “You can’t just leave your stuff and not expect to share.”

We were both lying.

(It was chamomile.)

Advertisement

Just getridofit by Vincent J Bracco

It was spoken that swiftly, as if he’d said it a million times before and she, having heard it that often, continued walking as if someone might take their favorite cafeteria table. The eavesdropper wondered, just what did he want her to get rid of? Certainly not that.  No one was that heartless. What then? Evidence of some kind? Drugs? Intriguing, but they weren’t the type. And what type were they? Normal, like everyone else. Bad habit then, pack of smokes bought out of weakness.  Crème donuts.
“I’m sorry,” said eavesdropper to their astonished, waiting looks, and, without explanation, left.

Ever?

Ever watch a raindrop fall from fifty thousand feet in expectation of the shattered symphony to follow?

That’s how it feels – watching your mouth as you devour my face.

Blue eyes make quick work of the tedious matter, moving down the skin of my neck to my too tight sweater. I let you unravel every thread and watch your pursed lips. I lick mine.

Nothing to say as I turn and retreat. But I take my time until I feel your gaze on my shoes. Goodbye – they answer in frantic footfalls.

Fast.

As if you ever dare to chase me. 

Paper Moon Play

Twinkle – is not the name for that mischievous delight within the Artist’s slanted eyes.

Rounded words etch the shape of a soft paper moon dipping to meet shadows in my heart. Poetry uncut. Rhymed in only the vague sensual connotations of each word as they line up like toy soldiers, each nick nackety figurine its own masterpiece in the ensemble.

And the Artist calls us in. An invitation to the naive appreciation of wonder even language cannot touch.

And so we play with bouncing words like kittens kneading string – the Artist and I. We sit caught, laughing in this web.