They are small things. And how ugly and wild and blissful they are! Scampering through backyards, eating beetles and weeds, identical heads bent back laughing with reckless abandon.
(Reblogged) I imagine that he lies barely beneath the ground. And that the vibrations of businessmen’s brisk marches, mothers’ dainty waltzes, and even children’s light skips on the street can tremble his heart into a weak rhythm.
FICTION They were sitting on a park bench and the day was clear. “I love you,” the girl had said. And Miss Ramsey—gray hair pulled back in a neat knot, lips tinted a polite pink—was quite taken aback, and why wouldn’t she be?
One night, a fish swims to the surface. Its head breaks the lake’s calm, casting thin ripples across the water. After taking a moment to catch its breath—for swimming upwards is hard work—the fish looks around and spots two men on the shore. They are counting bottle caps. “My son doesn’t love me,” the old man with …