It was Jo-Jo’s plan.
Break, enter, grab the artwork, drive.
But, she was home. A shot was fired.
A delay – the painting, which one?
Then sirens and a chase.
He’d had years to think about it.
Vivid in his memory, the searing heat of the asphalt on his face.
Jennifer M. Smith is a thinker, a tailor, an author, a sailor, but she’s no thief.
We watched the eclipse and the darkness that crept over the land.
No one expected that the darkness would remain.
We waited and watched in disbelief.
They emerged from the muck, the bowels of dusty towns, and neighbors’ dens, emboldened by the shadows and the promise of a new order.
Alison witnessed the solar eclipse, and wondered what would happen if the darkness stayed. Then she wondered whether the darkness has already prevailed.
Black as night and as silent as the rain he slipped over the rooftop edge.
Descending the building, he closed in on his target. Reaching the window, he peered inside and reached for his gun.
A woman appeared and the window swung open.
As silent as the rain, he fell.
Life knocks us all off a window ledge from time to time.
At twelve years old, she stood twelve feet tall. Her horns added another ten inches. The shaggy hair on her face and chest was thick and uncombed. Flies teased around her head like dark memories, darting in to nestle on her shoulders. She never allowed me to brush them away.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com
) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.