photofish
They moved together, each component succumbing to the larger machine. She sighed. She didn't see her brother anywhere, his body likely hidden within a sea of violinists, all moving together like the tentacles of an octopus.
Autumn air always reminded her of endings. It was rather contrarian of her, she knew, but the scent had never signaled new school years and exciting colors for her. Instead, it was a hurting time, a time of preparation for the long, cold, winter to come.
She fell brokenly, her legs collapsing beneath her like twigs. She had lost all control of her hands, and they shook uncontrollably.
"She'll tire more quickly now," the doctor whispered.
The combination of salt and pepper, though ordinary, was fatal for a certain Louie Joe Smith, an auto mechanic living on the South Side Curiously, he was still unaware of his personal suceptability to the seemingly innocent concoction.
We found out that he was profoundly autistic a week after his third birthday. The day the doctors told us, we ate mac and cheese from a box and drank orange juice out of plastic cups. Already we had convinced ourselves that life would remain the same. But it wouldn't.
It was always about love, she realized with a start. Was it like this for everyone, or was she just unhealthily obsessed? Kicking a stone aside, she continued on toward her car. Well, she thought, at least I know.
She walked slowly along the gravel path, letting her hand slide in and out of her pocket like a raccoon slithering into a burrow. It was strange, she thought, the way she never could seem to find time for him. And then she knew.
Like the sun. Her father's voice as he taught her how to fish was like the sun. She had never seen his hands so still and strong. They grasped the fish carefully and threw him back into the water: hook, line, sinker.
writing since 2011 · 10 entries · 8 days shown up
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