A man wrote a song and died.
Trembling, the song tried to sing herself. Each day she practised, flexing melodic limbs, strengthening pale notes, until she came to understand discordant beauty.
That day, her song spilled into rivers and comet trails, spread throughout galaxies.
The universe leaned in to listen.
Lisa Alletson is an emerging writer whose work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Write Launch. She was born in South Africa and lives in Toronto, Canada. Follow her on Twitter at @LisaAlletson.
My father beamed at me from his leather recliner. “You know, having not been around each other, we’re a lot alike.”
Whiskey stench. The late night police visits. My mother’s black eyes.
Too young to remember, bet he thought.
But then, I hated him for that statement worse than anything.
Mike Hancock is a former wilderness guide and commercial fisherman. Now living in Wewoka, Oklahoma, he is an Adjunct Professor of English and a freelance writer. He holds a B.A. in English Literature and a M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. His fiction has appeared in multiple literary journals, and London’s Ether Books. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mike-Hancock/112992545466326