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Mar. 22nd, 2015 12:17 amHers was another gravity. To see her was to fall. To touch her to land.
The eggcrating of the ocean's surface had at last collapsed, leaving styrofoam pulleys, then swellings and concavities so broad you had to skip your eyes across them to not find them flat.
She felt the phone buzzing in her pocket for almost a minute before realizing hers had been in her hand the whole time.
The stained glass painted the floor before them like a hopscotch ladder. He kept his feet off the lines. There were seven colors to cross. Red for Wednesday. He stopped on blue Tuesday and squinted to see what would happen. Not pausing, she ignored the lines, stepped partway into a parallel week then out of time altogether. He registered the blackness part for each leg then meet itself behind it. A dead asleep shark inhaling pale cyclones of fish. The ring of her heels hadn't changed. But the heels weren't in danger.
Had it really all come from a math error? The blood had reached the rug. Its edge fibers prickled, whether tugged at from below or sucking liquid upward. There seemed so much more blood than rug that one pictured the whole thing unmooring and silently swirling downstairs.
I fired then but it hardly mattered. The him that I needed to shoot was shut safe out of view behind twenty-four hours of past.
Only afterwards did she realize there'd been three sets of shoes by the door.
Their mouth sounds ran over then away from one another. Soon they'd be at it like blood-blinded prizefighters. I struck no match against my table's underside and lit a nonexistent cigarette with it. This might be a while.
He fell like the weight of the rain was what did it. Then his eyes met mine and have never remembered to stop.
If it was drugs it wouldn't clink and smell like metal, she pointed out. He reminded her few could know better than her there are all sorts of drugs.
What noir could ever pass the Bechdel test?
The eggcrating of the ocean's surface had at last collapsed, leaving styrofoam pulleys, then swellings and concavities so broad you had to skip your eyes across them to not find them flat.
She felt the phone buzzing in her pocket for almost a minute before realizing hers had been in her hand the whole time.
The stained glass painted the floor before them like a hopscotch ladder. He kept his feet off the lines. There were seven colors to cross. Red for Wednesday. He stopped on blue Tuesday and squinted to see what would happen. Not pausing, she ignored the lines, stepped partway into a parallel week then out of time altogether. He registered the blackness part for each leg then meet itself behind it. A dead asleep shark inhaling pale cyclones of fish. The ring of her heels hadn't changed. But the heels weren't in danger.
Had it really all come from a math error? The blood had reached the rug. Its edge fibers prickled, whether tugged at from below or sucking liquid upward. There seemed so much more blood than rug that one pictured the whole thing unmooring and silently swirling downstairs.
I fired then but it hardly mattered. The him that I needed to shoot was shut safe out of view behind twenty-four hours of past.
Only afterwards did she realize there'd been three sets of shoes by the door.
Their mouth sounds ran over then away from one another. Soon they'd be at it like blood-blinded prizefighters. I struck no match against my table's underside and lit a nonexistent cigarette with it. This might be a while.
He fell like the weight of the rain was what did it. Then his eyes met mine and have never remembered to stop.
If it was drugs it wouldn't clink and smell like metal, she pointed out. He reminded her few could know better than her there are all sorts of drugs.
What noir could ever pass the Bechdel test?
