There’s an echoing thud left over from the impact Brightly Burning makes as I hurl it against the wall. The book slithers to the floor as if ashamed for the sobs it has pulled from my chest. I hate it, I hate Mercedes Lackey, I hate myself for each immersive layer of empathy the book has taken from me.To unwrite the written […]
Tag: prose
A Household Utensil’s Day Off
The Hands are gone this morning and you breathe a sigh of relief—well, not literally, because you’re a sponge, and sponges don’t sigh so much as simply deflate a bit. Your scouring side still aches from last night’s skillet and its stubborn burnt remnants. You wanted to scream at the stupid Hand that this wasn’t […]
Impressionism After Midnight
Vincent Van Gogh is dead and my rabbit hasn’t eaten his dinner. I chide him (the rabbit) softly through stinging eyes and a smeared palette of makeup. Winter’s chill dances a slow hoary waltz down my spine but my attention is centered on this small, shivering, utterly belligerent sphere of fur. Blindly I grope around […]
Go Get ‘Em, Slayer
“Listen up, you little snots. In this world, you’re either the top dog, or you’re not. And if you’re not, then you’re breakfast. I didn’t become the number one small forward in the state my junior and senior years for slacking off. These days, you weaklings have no drive. It’s all bullcrap about feelings and […]
The Björn Family and the Human
Once upon a time, there was a little family named the Björns. Mama and Papa Björn loved each other dearly, despite their differences, and they raised Lilla Du, their daughter, to be proud of her own differences as well. They each liked their things in the little wooded home to be just so. Papa Björn […]
Nighttime in the Big Easy
The moon glowed in a liquid sky freckled with clusters of stars; a balmy puff of breeze did little more than rustle skirt hems and bring with it the scent of green. Scattered grit on the cobbled street created a crunch under meandering footsteps, as though the street were munching chips. Every so often the […]
Interlaced
My mother kisses my small, plump fingertips as I bawl over the blistering lesson I’ve just learned about stove-tops. For nearly a week after, my coloring book is erratic with crayon pathways independent of the firm dark rules that shape each drawing; after all, it is difficult to stay within the lines when my dominant […]
A. Rose Prose 