He was born with plain sight. Beige, khakis, white tees, muted colors; a grandiose assortment of the mundane was his blessing. Most would call it a curse—an endless tedium—but he was a glass half full kinda guy. He would gratefully bottle every bland rainbow caught in plain sight.
Helen’s lived in a lot of places, but the worlds created when writing are some of her favorites.
She once was sand, her body a swirling phantom. Her old haunt, the gaping maw of a ship.
Harvested on a Tuesday, melted on a Wednesday, molded on a Thursday. He made his perfect piece. Fragile, transparent—no hidden crevices.
He gripped too hard. Shattered, she took blood as reparation.
Helen Curran is a University of Cincinnati student with published poetry in East Fork: A Journal of the Arts. She thinks dogs are cute and sometimes she’s not lazy, actually sitting down to write (rare).