Uncategorized

silver antennas

Georgia’s antennas were made of the finest silver. They picked up the tiniest of signals, vibrated at the faintest of sounds. Georgia would set herself up in the grass on her front lawn and pick up whatever she could from the people walking by. And there were lots. Lots of people, and lots of things to be caught by her sensitive apparatus. Fidgety fingers, sluggish feet, fake laughs, infuriated sighs and quiet, broken-hearted sighs, heart palpitations, fluttering eyelashes, and even the cracking of smiles triggered from the secret thoughts that no instrument could ever pick up.

Georgia never missed a thing, but no one ever noticed her, sitting in the grass with her silver antennas, observing the world blow by on a wind of drama. Because that’s all it was to her: a stage. The backdrop, the trees against the sky, and the lighting, no less than the sun or the moon. The curtains, her drooping eyelids, were the only thing that pulled her away from the show and the myriad feelings it evoked. The empathy within her grew day by day, year after year, until she was no more than a puddle of emotion, spread low and wide, shapeless and soft, the silver antennas steadfastly trapping and transferring data from out there where her front lawn ended and the world began.

For more of my flash and poetry:

blanketsandfrankincense.wordpress.com

literature

Stop eating the leaves, Stan

“Stop eating the leaves, Stan!”

Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth.

“I should have know you’d be trouble,” I said, flipping through the accounting records. “It’s been a rough few months, we’ll have to close if we keep this up. We need to draw more people.”

Stan spat out the pages and walked over to the blackboard in one big step, ducking to avoid the fluorescents. The chalk between his teeth, he began to draw a stick figure.

“Not that kind of draw, you long-necked twit.”

The giraffe dropped the chalk and went back to nosing through the books on the highest shelf. Wth his tongue, he opened a cloth-covered, vintage edition (they tasted so much better with age) and ripped out a page, slowly, so as to not be heard.

“I told you to stop eating the leaves, Stan!” I slammed my hands on my desk and glared at him.

Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth. After a few moments, he began to chew again. I sipped my bitter coffee and went back to flipping through the accounting records.