Writer’s Choice

Will I Forget Your Face?

You were special, hard… but so are gems. You were a shard of glass embedded under my skin.

A decade and two years of prairie farming. His hands touching her limp silhouette; Laid in the comfort of her bed.

The girl laughed at her mother, a bigger laugh than was necessary and took another brownie. She was high.

Maryn concentrated on the feeling of his touch, the cool sensation that passed over her skin…

Bodies – One by One – which flail out the Rivers like Salmon, already caught by haunting Men.

Only an expanding heart . . . one that under-stands Those who ignore their history are doomed to repeat it.

Poor Dad was completely booked. So, I took it upon myself to become a professional, certified rock hunter…

A thousand ideas bouncing and bounding inside my head, knocking the smoke out of me, drumming up plans for the day after…

And yet, now, as I stood with him I found myself clawing for words, searching for something to say…