Fiction Tag

Tick tick. Some animals need their loves far away from them. With the canned freeze, phone flickering under a blanket, I could almost understand. Pinecones in the boreal forest are right now closing up on their own warmth, Mr. Attenborough tells me, while long ears and pads have become pelt casings

I saw you last on Hestia’s hill head high, solemn and waxed in weightpaste, holding the Olympic flare defiantly over the valley— its firelight, bright in marble-star night, falling softly on matted grass, its kindling sparks like flies in measle-blotch blisters and hives  upon the scarfaced sca