dustinkuhns

1.9.20

She feels her face but through the mittens, cold and sweaty, folded in between her afternoon thighs.

1.9.19

Blood drips down from the crack in her ice-cold chin and she feels it sticky when she opens and closes her clammy, scraped-up hands.

It’s hard to take even the wisest clown too seriously.

1.9.18

It’s easier, she determines, to spin round without a partner who skates ahead because she hadn’t learned to stop.

If it can be reduced to a slogan, please save us all the time.

1.9.17

She crashes down onto the rink with the adults caring too much about the other children laughing.

In an appeal for liberalism, the fast-tongued bloviator returns every day to the forum and shouts of how he wishes to be left alone.

Darkening, the ocean augmented as she excavated through the messy buildup of sand and loose morass falling in around the hole through which the turtle tumbled, and she suffocated as the sand poured down through the end of her snorkel and filled her cottonmouth.

1.9.15

She swam ahead alone with someone right behind her, and wove through the coral as the turtle ducked and dove in schools of fish, molten and aglow.

“Nobody who tends to flowers hates being alive.”