Lawless Letters

A few years in, it occurred to me I had married a mountain. I mistook rigidity for strength, immovability for loyalty. With shocking speed, your winds would shift, one moment temperate, the next bitter, your anger an icy gale that slashed. I could never see it coming; there was no forecast. I learned to find what shelter I could Until it passed. Your shouts were an avalanche. I threw up my arms to protect my head, sometimes lobbing missiles back, often fleeing to more stable ground. Alarmed, I’d snatch the baby from her crib, my torso curving into a shell to shield her, and run outside. You followed, bellowing that I was the crazy one. At the word “abuse” you were confused, saying I never laid a hand on her. You didn’t see the rocks you threw, nor the cuts they made. How could I have thought a stone could see? It was against your nature. I left when I recognized that it would be madness to try to change the weather. Poetry writing prompt: Incorporat...

Photo Credit: cosmiccrisp.com I really wasn’t looking for an epiphany. All I wanted was a snack. “Hey, Evie! Let’s grab some grub so we won’t be drinking on an empty stomach,” Dana said, wisely. So we walked toward the little shop. Like all the shops along the pedestrian street leading to the beach bars, it sold food, beer, flip-flops, souvenirs, and condoms. Dana strolled inside, but I stopped at the sidewalk, where a black-haired woman was sorting fresh produce into wicker bins. The fruit glowed in the golden light of the setting sun. Oranges, bananas, starfruit, and, to my surprise, apples. The apples seemed ridiculously round, sinfully shiny, impossibly red. Why did they look so irresistible? Was I missing Milwaukee, here, in the middle of the Caribbean? “What kind are these? Gala?” I asked the lady. “Cosmic Crisp. Washington State,” she replied, with an accent I couldn’t place. She glanced at my short dress and smiled. “Heading to the clubs? Try one of these. They...

Photo Credit: wrestlingmedia.org The giant ’s theme music blared. He stepped through the ropes into the ring, waving to the roaring crowd. As he bellowed his catchphrase, “Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!” he triumphantly reflected on his ascent from beanstalk injury victim to WWE Superstar. Writing Prompt: Tell a story in exactly 40 words about what happens after a fairy tale ends.

Up here, behind the orchard, all is green And lovely as I visit for a spell, Cursing the sun and all its brilliant lies. How dare the sun shine bright as my love lies Interred beneath this silent grassy green? An earth-bound passion held us in its spell. I never thought that such a love could spell Our doom. But Jake did not believe my lies. Deep scarlet drenched a gown of olive green. Stone letters, mossy green, spell “here lies Anne.” Writing prompt: Ekphrastic poetry (describe a work of visual art) 

It’s a garden-variety Wednesday. I wave to the departing school bus, rein in the hyperactive mutt on her leash, and begin my daily walk. The light, gentle breeze is exactly the kind of breeze that’s exceptionally pleasant on a hot summer day, lifting the sweat from your sweltering skin. However, it’s February in Chicagoland, so that breeze turns a doable 25-degree morning into a yank-the-scarf-across-the-face, let's-get-this-over-with morning. I briefly fantasize about reclining in a chaise lounge on a sandy beach, smelling salt water and suntan lotion and complaining about the heat. My feet make a rubbery crunching sound as they squash down the snow. The freezing rain sounds like crackling Rice Krispies as it peppers every surface. Half a block away, a tall truck barrels down a cross street, shaking loose a flutter of snow from the trees next to the road. Some people dwell in hot climates where it never snows, like my cousin (the lucky stiff) who lives on the island of...

I’ve never gotten around to polishing this old black leather purse. It’s a backpack-style purse. Sturdy and practical. Cute, too. But it’s seen a few miles. It’s getting gray with age. A little leather polish would improve its looks, probably. I never get around to polishing my fingernails, either. They’re short-to-medium length, occasionally filed, more often chipped and ripped by the demands of daily life. On any given day, I have a thousand better things to do than paint my fingernails. I, too, have seen a few miles, am sturdy and practical, and am getting gray with age. But everything still works, and I’ve never felt better. You know what, forget the polish. I think I’ll let that purse just keep on trucking.

Brian sat at the table by the window, counting the red cars that passed by. He didn’t particularly like red cars. His own car was blue. But the red ones were the easiest to spot. Ever since he was a kid, he’d counted them, to calm himself down when he was feeling worked up. Today, his technique wasn’t quite doing the trick. Brian stood up and flipped on the TV to distract himself from his thoughts, then sat back down. Sixteen red cars drove by before Erica’s green Volkswagen turned off the main road into Brian’s apartment complex. Erica came in without knocking and sat down next to Brian with her usual greeting. “What’s up, Bro!” She dropped a package of Double Stuf Oreos on the table. “So, you heard back from Jason, huh?” she asked, opening the package and doling out two cookies to each of them. “Look at this.” Brian flipped his laptop open and showed her the photos. “Whoa,” Erica said, chewing a cookie as she leaned in for a better look. “Yep, you’re twins all right.” ...