She sat on her porch,
all knock-kneed and fruitless. Her skin was folded with edges of not so nice tomfoolery of time. Flesh like origami... without the pretty swans. Her freshly pressed garments hung from her bones.. flying buttresses of days gone by. The city folk shuttered the walls her long dead daddy had built. Sticky notes flapped upon her doors and window panes - declaring her departure, but she wouldn't read them. The chaperones came. Parcels neatly stacked by her feet, draped with a sheet, looked easy enough to move. "We can only take two" the chaperones said. She believed differently. "Oh, then I have one for each of you" she stated. Her lanky arms reached tenderly under the sheet, and drew double steel barrels, the ones her long dead daddy used on the farm. Many a head of cattle met this fate, landing on the family table in slabs of steak mixed with potatoes and gravy. Ah, that was memories ago. "We can only take two" the chaperones had said. So there, on her porch, she shot them dually dead.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |