For two years, I had known of their deaths, the circumstances, the time right down to the second. Yet in those two years, when they had treated me like a sister, shared their blanket, their house and even their food, with me, a stranger, I had not tried to save them or even warn them.
There is a man on his way here, in a boat. He is fleshy and wet. Alive. I can hear his heart beating, his blood pumping through his veins, his lungs expanding and contracting. He thinks I am dead.
Tammy Ruggles is a legally blind photographer, artist, and writer who makes her home in Kentucky
Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
I’ll tell you a tale of Hallowmas time, a triduum marking the Days of the Dead,
three days of petition for the faithful departed; a time when the liminal veil
Life merely an experiment… he tells
himself, spooning soup he made
without a recipe
about the edge
about the cutout
cutout of place
cutout of white
His gills were perfect. The water rushed into his mouth and was forced out over his ruby slits as he propelled his body through the blue-green water of Oceana Cyenya Regal.
The smell of blackened bacon and flattened hairspray stuffed the room while the two lovers stared into each other’s red glazed heavy eyes.
What the hell is that in your hand, son? A thermal imaging camera? You run around with that high-tech hocus pocus out in my woods and y’all are likely to wind up hogtied ass up with that fancy scope sticking out your corn hole.