Contributor: Samuel Cole
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Tires crush gravel beneath me until brakes squeal and a muffler vibrates wildly. Power windows buzz down, up, down, up, down; soulful whispers of acknowledgment pierce my well-polished ears and mended face, permanently smiling at a giant rose blooming before my marble-threatened eyes.
Hands clutched across my heart as if hovering for surprise, the clock inside my head ticks on and on and on. I can’t see my fingernails, but I trust they’re not painted bright red like some third rate whore, but French-tip-pink like a woman of good-standing means.
Somewhere my daughter is biting the corners of her fingernails; my cousins, damn moochers, likely licking their chops; my two sisters shaking their hands and heads complaining, oh, it’s so hot out, oh, that boring service, oh how long, how very very long; my grandson sticking his fingers between his armpits making that funny whoopee cushion noise; my granddaughter waving her hand over her nose, no doubt scowling at the farm yard smells of this eerie calm place called Reflections II. Believe it or not, even I can smell it. Reflections I, across the street, my first choice, filled up six year ago. Reflections III, beside the pond, begins construction next April, but I couldn’t wait that long.
Suddenly, my mother’s auburn-flip-style-hairdo and see-through-me-eyes find me in the dark, her pucker skin floating above me like a shadowy screen, her bile index finger pointing deep into my chest until my heart implodes. She pokes fun at my weakness, as she knows I have nowhere else to run and hide.
--Where have you been? she screams, judging me, like before, like now, like forever.
But I can’t close my eyes or dream her away.
--I have been here waiting, she screams even louder. --I have kept my word, my promise, my end of the bargain.
I hear men breathing, marching toward my cold, marble slab. The wind shifts me to the right, left, hands down, spectacles falling between my nose and upper lip. My back is breaking, but I can’t resist one final stretch.
--I’m right here. I yell. --I am lying right here. I lose a finger; two toes; the end of my tongue.
She seems pleased. Like a smile before gutting an enemy.
Oh, how her darkness admires me now, to bully, allot, damn, razor.
I am hers.
Hers.
Her.
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Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN. He loves to run, STEP, photograph bowls, hang with friends, boo bad movies, and of course, write.
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Tires crush gravel beneath me until brakes squeal and a muffler vibrates wildly. Power windows buzz down, up, down, up, down; soulful whispers of acknowledgment pierce my well-polished ears and mended face, permanently smiling at a giant rose blooming before my marble-threatened eyes.
Hands clutched across my heart as if hovering for surprise, the clock inside my head ticks on and on and on. I can’t see my fingernails, but I trust they’re not painted bright red like some third rate whore, but French-tip-pink like a woman of good-standing means.
Somewhere my daughter is biting the corners of her fingernails; my cousins, damn moochers, likely licking their chops; my two sisters shaking their hands and heads complaining, oh, it’s so hot out, oh, that boring service, oh how long, how very very long; my grandson sticking his fingers between his armpits making that funny whoopee cushion noise; my granddaughter waving her hand over her nose, no doubt scowling at the farm yard smells of this eerie calm place called Reflections II. Believe it or not, even I can smell it. Reflections I, across the street, my first choice, filled up six year ago. Reflections III, beside the pond, begins construction next April, but I couldn’t wait that long.
Suddenly, my mother’s auburn-flip-style-hairdo and see-through-me-eyes find me in the dark, her pucker skin floating above me like a shadowy screen, her bile index finger pointing deep into my chest until my heart implodes. She pokes fun at my weakness, as she knows I have nowhere else to run and hide.
--Where have you been? she screams, judging me, like before, like now, like forever.
But I can’t close my eyes or dream her away.
--I have been here waiting, she screams even louder. --I have kept my word, my promise, my end of the bargain.
I hear men breathing, marching toward my cold, marble slab. The wind shifts me to the right, left, hands down, spectacles falling between my nose and upper lip. My back is breaking, but I can’t resist one final stretch.
--I’m right here. I yell. --I am lying right here. I lose a finger; two toes; the end of my tongue.
She seems pleased. Like a smile before gutting an enemy.
Oh, how her darkness admires me now, to bully, allot, damn, razor.
I am hers.
Hers.
Her.
- - -
Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN. He loves to run, STEP, photograph bowls, hang with friends, boo bad movies, and of course, write.
Author:
Samuel Cole
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