Micro-fiction: 2 am Ineptitude

2 am Ineptitude

Awkwardly, Diane held the woman’s dead hand trying to slide off the wedding rings. Her skin, like cold clay, gave resistance. The gold circle spun,               a large document              , uploading. She looked away with sudden 2 am ineptitude. He stood at the bedside, his warm fingers over Diane’s were a rescue.

“I put them on,” he said, “I’ll be the one to take them off.”

Poem: I Once Dreamed of Bob Dylan

I’m pulling this one out of the way back machine. It was originally written in 2008 and published somewhere, though the place escapes me without searching records. I’ve always loved the power of dreams to tell me something about myself. I can still remember this dream even though it has been 13 years. I hope you enjoy.

I once dreamed of Bob Dylan

I once dreamed of Bob Dylan
in a tree house, one walled,
and built from looking glass.

The old man spoke to me
as leaves colored like imminent death
drifted and swirled, their reflection
a knowing torture, and he said 

                                                   blankly:

“You must walk the highway
to get to the by-way.”

I blinked twice,
flashing sea stones
at his face (cracked and dried
like mud in noon sun)
as he pointed to the lines on mine
that had not  been written yet.

Micro-Fiction: The Love Child of H.G. Wells

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

Time moves slowly in the desert propelling me at half the speed of light without stealing the memory of time travel from my sun-bleached gray matter. In my state of disillusionment, I find my cold body in the same place I left it; my brain having traversed the expanse of a million years of untouchable land coveting layers of history I shall never have access to. I have to live with this knowledge tucked behind the soft curves of my ears, always whispering at high decibels absorbed by silence.

Poem: 100 Years Will Get You Nothing

This poem was previously published in print at the fabulous zine, Nibble.

Photo by Aleathia Drehmer

100 Years Will Get You Nothing

I blow my nose
standing topless in front
of the bathroom mirror,
after reading a poem
about an centenarian 
awaiting the revolution,
with my breasts lying flat
against my chest like that old man’s
dream of an uprising.  I struggle
with the box of tissues—
pull out too many and catch
a glimpse of my tired face
and even more tired body
and wonder exactly
what am I doing here?