epigraph
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When it's dark and quiet at night, I'll pretend that she's a chair; leaning against me, holding my hand. Sharing silence across miles. S
8:25 AM Nov 17th
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Tightening torc and ropes made of words. What color they are, only one at a time knows. Caught between regret and relief. Close your eyes. S
1:46 PM Nov 10th
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Pungent chalk-rosin, dusty sunbeams and sight through fingertips-- drawing out "Man's Desire." The marriage of metal and wood, singing. S
1:08 PM Sep 22nd
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Mouth full of cotton and a head full of seeds. "You have so much potential," they'd say. "But no one watered me," she'd think to herself. S
4:52 PM Aug 7th
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Stolen words and too-late revelations. Finding tangled red strings she hadn't noticed there before - or maybe it was just her imagination. S
2:39 PM Aug 6th
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The distance is tangible, a stubborn mass sitting between them. Never to be moved or penetrated. She spits at the transparent separator. -A
1:43 AM Aug 5th
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Amidst the buzzing clover and thickened air, torrents of water and scorching sunlight; ripe tomatoes and vines. The sweet smell of summer. S
9:42 PM Aug 2nd
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Air seeped back into her lungs, stroking them gritty and dry. She wondered how sand had come to reside where there was no room for it. -A
6:06 AM Jul 13th
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Refer to: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Kesey.
1:15 PM Jul 8th
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He bares her breasts to expose something utterly woman, something soft and warm. Something pale and blushing. Something easily destroyed. S
1:13 PM Jul 8th
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Plucked pins and wrapped red ribbon 'round her swan neck. Delicately pricked and removed. Beaded rubies. Her marionette head falls off. S
11:04 AM Jun 22nd
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He keeps counting corpses while she's counting the budding seeds. He was not careful of their brittle ribcages. She'll cradle moist earth. S
11:58 AM Jun 1st
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Having lit the match to burn her with, all surfaces now sear. Don't touch, don't touch! "But his f/ire can be sweet when slowly consumed." S
9:01 AM May 29th
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A ritual, a ceremony. Fed to another with timid fingers, the taste of cinnamon and ripeness. Handstirred pumpkin bread, distant affection. S
4:29 PM May 26th
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They drift between headstones. Beer is spilled - an accident, but perhaps the dead enjoy its taste. Living, dead; all will drink tonight. -A
1:13 PM May 22nd
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Tiny little man inside the tiny little walnut shell. I'll crack him free and blow a path of purpose against his back. Feel old, feel grown S
2:32 PM May 21st
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Swallowing down the past to see hope. Jonny's fingers slide across shining wood and metal. Oh, soft morning bell, how I hope you are well. S
10:31 AM May 8th
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Good Lord -- "lavendar"? Ha. Dear Twitter, plz to be allowing editing of posts? S
3:41 PM May 4th
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Fiona Apple singing; sour 'n sweet wine voice. Counting seashells in a glass jar with a metal clasp. Lavendar powder floats in the air. S
8:57 AM May 1st
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The creatures creak to a halt. An army stilled across monochrome land. Their gears have rusted beneath the selfless drive of their march. -A
8:45 PM Apr 21st
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- Name epigraph
- Bio from Gk. epigraphe -- a short, pithy sentence at the head of a book or chapter. Two women (A & S) join together to create teeny tiny stories.
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