A little exercise to limber up the fingers. Past prologue is present imperfect, or if you like, future-fried. Do you want to hear a little sea shanty? I want to turn into a kite. The stream has left me, I’m only crumbs. A little protest of musical notes tells me I've found the nest. Wanting to leave doesn’t mean you ever will. The ties that bind – around my neck, slowly, ever so slowly tightening. A dire situation demands a drastic response, or none at all. A leaf lives only four months, a butterfly four weeks, my heart only four seconds. Diamonds cut me, a stream of red dances down the hill and flowers bloom in its wake. Lightning flashes, but no rain falls from heavy clouds. Miners live in fear of collapses that will suffocate them. Hammers hunt nails. Shoot a rocket through space, dive into the atmosphere and burn up, leaving a disappointed wish behind. Only the tiniest animals lived through the colossal destruction the comet wrought sixty-five million years ago, only those who hid survived. A firefly lights the dark; he doesn’t curse it, he’s just searching for a mate. Children salute the flag, never comprehending her red means blood, with no telling trace left behind in the soil. Shit is food for many animals. Death is food for life. Perhaps a smidgen of salt? Wilting flowers tell the time. Divide and conquer, unify and conquer. The disillusionment of endings, the dissolution of days. |
Submission Name: Writing exercise
