A week ago I was dead.
We should have recognized the omens the night we cruised into Santa Fe. When snowdrifts obscured the friendly signs and covered the windows of strangers that would normally welcome visitors like us; when blizzard-like conditions caused every automobile to creep along the interstate in fear that an overcorrection of the wheel might fatefully crush metal and bones upon impact with red rock encased in ice; when we finally arrived at our hotel room, exhausted after twelve hours on the road, and it appeared as though a drug dealer or wild animal had inhabited the place for months -- crooked picture frames and dank, mustard-colored sheets left behind as ruffled remnants of his nightly terrors, induced by bad trips, bad dreams, or bad luck.
"My life closed twice before its close; it yet remains to see if immortality unveils a third event to me, so huge, so hopeless to conceive, as these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell."
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.
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.