Skip to main content

Gift of Gab



God gave me the gift of gab.

He does not accept returns.

So I wrote a letter to his manager.


It came back in ashes.

The envelope was still warm.


I had an angel on the phone,

but I could hardly understand him.

He mumbles.

He told me to take a look in the mirror

then he hung up the phone.


I looked.

I saw the bones of my mother fused with the eyes of my father,




I graciously thanked them both.

God banned me from his store.


My last check must have bounced.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…