Oct 20, 2011

7.9. Anonymous 9

Future Tense

That dragonfly matches

the paper. Impudent fucker.

It cannot blink with pasted eyes.

Maniacal laughter from

a five year old tempts me

to carve my name

into the table. Backward,

in Hebrew. Peacemaker.

Matchmaker. Ensnarer.

Yes. I have a captive


I could carry the future

in my own womb.

This insect with a 24 hour

life-span, maturing while I

slip to my knees. The floor

will be cleaned. There will be

no funeral. I cannot even find

the body

until it moves inside me.

They learn to fake it

at such a young age. Life.

And what will I name you,


Display the artwork, unframed.

The wall is safe enough. Those

wings are glued and we

are not ones to look

too closely.

Dexter sat on the white wrought iron chair at an outdoor café

Dexter sat on the white wrought iron chair at an outdoor café. He smiled as he handed her the vitamin pill. Her face remained fixed, the blush radiant on her cheeks. She took the vitamin and let it slide down her throat without the benefit of a beverage.

“It is for your own good,” he told her.

“Yes, Dexter. I know.”

He filled the artificial silence with mumbles of well wishing, then reminded her that this was the very table at which the witch had sat not so long ago. She did not know what he was talking about, so she busied herself with the dessert menu. When Dexter began to babble about the ice of the angel, she stopped him.

“I can’t understand a word you are saying,” she said. Her nose began to bleed at that moment so there was never any time to explain.

Two days later she was still bleeding intermittently into her pillow case. Dexter sent her a postcard and a bottle of vitamins. She figured it was just as well. She never liked sweets that much anyway.

Anonymous believes that tequila is the best way to time-travel.

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