At Once and Why Not Strike the Match to Burn the World
Estelle was a purse, hanging on a nearby hatrack. You were a levelheaded bowler, throwing wide.
As Jonathan fell six stories, the birds aligned on high-tension wires caught a sudden buzz from his screams.
Tara Dean drew the ripe head of a Burner’s brand matchstick along a small piece of Kraft sandpaper she’d glued to the full grain leather of her Redcap boot.
And then on the sidewalk, the late Jonathan’s pocket change encircled his body in a sort of exploded halo pattern.
K. Shawn Edgar | Peace Out | Time-Jumper | Love Skeleton