When represented on a flat surface, a right angle can appear acute or oblique.
Life Drawing
Staring up at me from behind the glass, a mouth that never seems to quite close and two bulbous eyes. They follow my finger as it traces lines up and down the screen, creating bubbles in its wake. My friend, golden scales and graceful fins, swims in his electronic cage, making loops and pinwheeling along with the actions of my moving digit. He doesn't seem to know his home, the aqua-blue paradise of his existence filled with fiery coral, sunken ships, and bright shining trinkets is only a dream - one that is not even his own.
Everyone's a joker, until the joke's on them, thought the fish. Swimming in the fluorescent green waters was hell on the eyes, which they could never even close by the way. Just because a bloke swam in his own feces didn't mean he needed to be the butt of every little orange-finned wiseguy that happened to be dumped into their river. Who did he think he was anyway?
The boy that had dumped the little orange fish had left in a hurry. Probably glad to be rid of the little bugger, honestly. The fish swam up to the orange monstrosity,...
It was because he was different, not like everyone else. That's what he told himself. That's what the mirror told him. Whenever he looked in it he was confronted by just how different he was. Whenever someone looked at him, he could see his difference in their eyes, in the way their eyes flickered away from him then back again. Unable to look at him. Unable to look away. Once he'd daydreamed about meeting a girl who couldn't see him, a blind girl. She'd fall in love with him because of his who he was, not because of what he...
swallowed by the water flowers at last
the canoe breathed across the swamp
I found the roots of an ancient oak
felled by Paul Bunyan
shed on by the ox
and dove,
a dove falling into the light,
to the tree's top,
waving in the murky green,
strange fish like oxen
strange waters
strange trees
the dove and the ancient oak
Bess lock eyed Meg as their minds circled each other warily.
"if I were a cat I'd scratch you." she ventured.
"A dog, I'd bite you." Meg countered.
"As a bear I'd press you down…"
"A horse I'd kick…"
"If I was a buzzard I'd swoop with talons…"
"A Magpie, I'd mob you with heavy wings…"
"A hornet I'd sting…"
"A swallow, I'd flit and dart with sharpened beak…"
"And what would it get you, Old Meg?"
"Methinks the same as you,Young Bess. Naught but ill."
They stopped mentally pacing. A battle over that had never begun.
"What now then,...
Potatoes.
The bane of my son's existence.
I set the plate down in front of him with a futile hopefulness that today might be the day that he wouldn't wrinkle his nose and recoil as if it were something deeply offensive. But it wasn't. And he did.
"I don't LIKE potatoes," he growled, glowering up at me.
His father frowned and made to reprimand his son's insolence, but I held up a hand to silence him.
"These aren't just any potatoes," I declared with authority, "These potatoes are grown by superheroes."
My four year old looked skeptical, but as he...
The ticking of the clock invigorated her. Every click pounded in her brain, every hourly chime let her know that she was that much closer to her release. Life, there's the rub... She would never know the calamity of a long life, and for that she was grateful. While others were doomed to grow old, lose their loved ones, die alone - she gave her life freely - knowing that her sacrifice would please their overlords, bringing peace to her village.
She said her farewells to a swelling sea of tear streaked faces, but her own was shining, brilliant. As...
The farmer, his wife, the plough boy, and both maids set off towards the barn, with the old woman hobbling after. She muttered incantations as they walked through the village, then whispered to herself:
"All shall be well. All manner of things shall be well."
When they were within, Will took Pog's hand. "Will ye dance as we did at our wedding?"
"Happen I will, Master." she replied with a courtesy. Meg saw, if none other (saving maybe Will himself) the years fall from her face.
Mary didn't wait to ask, or be asked, but simply grabbed and pulled Tom's...
PUNCH
Graham Pererson was a murderer. He killed people. Often.
Under the guise of a little old man he scoured the late evening streets for his victims. He carried a small bag and a walking stick.
He had a nicely worked out system which had, to date, never failed him.
And so tonight, April 1, he locked his door behind him and headed towards the suberbs.
They were starting to head home in groups of two and three from their nights of debauchery. He hated them. All of them.
A young woman seperated from her group and turned a corner....