First thing he read in a newspaper was only a shape. Taken from the backside, held by other hands. The carpet floor was rather thin.
Four feet measured the threadbare couch. Two more the chair next door. Paper and yarn in hand. The third fretted about something fret worthy we suppose.
Clouds would seem closer than the ceiling was. Summer up there, winter here. Doors were polite, not sentinels. A child is a rose with thorns inside.
Five feet, six feet tall, moved like wind passing through the living room. Maybe more storms than wind. Just a matter of kinetic momentum, not intent.
More than squares and circles, some people moved like spears, just that swift. Might as well be more printed words, just that much mystery far.
There were potato chips on a plate ten feet tall. Melted cheese among grandmother’s plants. Ballpoint pens weren’t invented yet, nor better clues.
Down from the backporch a cabin with rusty window screens. Later that would be a mistake. Till then a young man slept but his feet were already wind.
Faster than a black crow one day the cabin held only dust. And no one seems to say goodbye to a child that much young. Snow sheets and he was out of sight.
Grandmother’s nose inside a rose. Then, what you’d expect.
neil reid © february 2012
could say stolen but it’s not really the same, different as ink blotted on another page. besides I think she’d understand, the one who makes me look this way. best not take me seriously.