Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

when the petals fall moist from the rose

The world is a murk and ahaze with the hurt and the blazing rage of my last, lingering love affair.

So Big was this Love, it absently consumed the next and the next like forgotten little morsels of meat stuck to the undersides of my back teeth....

I vaguely remember the Rebound Men, the dim and distant faces and voices and maleness and laughs...I told them carefully that it couldn't last, but rebound men can't hear such things - this is their nature.

The world, my world, is amurk and ahazed, it has run wild amidst the feral bushes whose witchy arms reach creaking for....who knows what? They have forgotten the face of the Sun, and they are leaf-less.

My world, my living lie is alive when I try to fight the dying living. I keep forgetting that all is forgiven, all is forgiven.
In time.

My living lie, the lie of my life strides noisily from room to room, and sometimes I hide behind the wide expanse of a white wall, or in a snug, warm trunk lined with dark silks and furs...or behind the protective slats of a bedroom wardrobe...spying through bars and stripes of light...wide-eyed with shock.

My life, my death, the death unplanned, the fellow as yet unmet.
Whether he is to be well met, remains to be seen.

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