The pungent, stinging stench of tea tree oil diffuses rapidly in the stale air of the cramped apartment. I study the little bits of stray matter highlighted by the ray of sun beaming through the window, imagining them choking and coughing on scent. Is it possible to die from a smell? It's supposed to kill lice with its antibacterial properties; does that go for all insects? I'm going to have to Google that. The steady hiss of the shower abruptly shuts off. I hear whistling and the vinyl snap of the shower curtain being flung open, and then the slap of wet feet hitting the linoleum floor. He must have shoved the bathmat against the door again.
In us resides the power of creation, for better or worse. Every decision we make changes our history. Those extra minutes we search for our lost keys might very well have saved us from the accident on I-80. For all the time we spend studying for our lives, it is that random bit of trivia that one picks up from a game show which breaks the ice with our future spouse.
I'm punched red as the green hills watch. They roll on in silence, echoing the red fists that work my face into bulges and gashes. Carl used to strike me pink with love. But these days, it's with fists.
Sarah Mckinstry-Brown is a poet, mother and wife. She is one woman balancing a monsoon of tasks. Mckinstry-Brown explained that life's gifts and blessings can become cumbersome, such is the nature of life. This is the inspiration behind her new full-length collection of poetry, "Cradling Monsoons."
Alfred strolled solemnly through the shallow waters of the river. With every step, wet sand oozed between his toes. The sun was setting slowly, its reflection stretching across the river's surface, a rippling semicircle of liquid heat.
Jethro awoke with a start.
It was going on noon when I found the Lucky Seven saloon. It was a dingy place on the edge of Tucson, the kind of hole you didn't go to so much as end up at, but I was tired and hungry, and I needed a drink.