Liobit

"Well I'll be damned," I said to her And dropped my hand to stroke her fur. I did not hear her softly purr; The woods were roaring where we were. Two trees were toppled; nine were marked. A third bent down, its thin trunk arced Above a trailer aptly parked. "It's coming down!" the foreman barked. I clasped her close and backed away; I knew they would not let us stay. I'd have to find another way-- Another place where she may lay. I walked as far as I dared go And picked a tree and sat below. I waited for her heart to slow To put her down; I loved her so.

He held his head in his hands and felt his heart wrenched from his chest and torn into pieces. She shrugged and tried to pretend like it was nothing, as though this was something she could recover from in a few short days, like she could train herself to forget and move on. But she could not. He could not, and he knew she could not either. Something wouldn't let her, something dark and sinister and present in every living soul. This would eat at her as nothing else had. No, she was like him, deep down at the roots. "I should have been there," he whispered again, and the words tumbled about his head, and the familiar, icy touch of horror ca

I trust the treads of my boots— We're at the summit now; they've served me well. Our blue sky breaks over head Cloudless as far as the horizon. Lunch is summer sausage and cheese and sun And one of our number takes a nap in satisfaction. "You know," croaks our trip leader from a tin of sardines, "Sitting on this summit, looking at this fantastic view, You really realize what a great country this is for bears."

Imprinted on his hands were little marks Of crosses red and angry from the wall Where he had pressed his hands because she barks Incessantly about how he lacks gall. Her parents send her letters through the post Dictating how she ought to live her life And though this man they may not love the most, They still must meet him or there will be strife. But he refuses out of fear that they Will do to him what they did to the last: His corpse was found in pieces, just like clay, A tale that left him utterly aghast. "But you'll be fine," assures she with a sigh, And he can't help but wonder if he'll die.

The rain was cold and it sucked all the warmth out of her. She was soaked to the skin, and her skin was goosebumped and shivering, and the heels of her hands dug into the pavement to keep her arms from shaking. But they shook anyway. She screamed into the ground below her, certain but not really caring that no one would hear her voice in the wind. It carried the sounds of thunder and the creak of falling trees and stole her voice entirely to add to its collection of unnerving howls. It was dark except for the wavering streetlight, which threatened to bow to the wind just like the trees. The massive bolts in the base of it groaned against th

crosses were left imprinted on his hands red and angry from the tiles in the walls of the shower where he had stood for hours letting hot water cascade over his body, a cleansing in vain. the room was still something inside him screamed he curled in on himself keeping the memory at bay barely and choked on words he did not know how to say.

Fairytales Nine years ago, I began sleeping alone. The sheets were too cold, too spacious without him and my pillow was tearstained for weeks. Nine years ago, I caved in on myself and began seeing the world through new eyes. I chose to believe in fantasies and fairy tales. I remember gathering a small, angled bug into my cupped hand he had snuck into the house when winter came and I honestly believed he was my friend returned to me. I remember gathering my coat around me sneaking out to his grave only to have the tears freeze on my cheeks. The ache hurt like a hole in my heart a hole in my whole chest the pull of the emptiness

I am the smell of fallen leaves and hydrangea as days grow shorter and the wind starts teething. I am the claws of guilt working on your stomach every time you see her face. I am the marching band in the parade, blasting you with the music of victory, and reminding you with every step that the music will have to stop sometime, and then you'll have to go home. I am the creak of the door and the old wood underfoot as you creep into your home with the twilight. I am the wind that bends the pines as you hope, like every night before, that she's not home. I am the starlight on your bedspread as you lock your bedroom door behind you. I am the