Poetry

Sonnet

My jewelry box brims with lustrous pearls
from all the people I have loved to be
a part of, and am now leagues away from
reaching out to touch, reaching into, just
to feel as lustrous and coveted as
black necklaces at black dress occasions.
Remember when you gave me that trinket
because you knew I would appreciate
how much it meant to you. I did keep the
sparkle in your eye a secret. You told
me to wear it so we could be closer.
There I was listening for your voice in
the sound of the waves trapped inside the sea
shell memento, embraced by love’s echo.

by SuniD

Poetry

Change       

 Water rushes toward the shore thudding like a bass on contact. The wave wants to replace the crackling sound of the fire pit with a new hiss; to join with the heat, encompass it, and make it succumb. Together, they will make steam; two elements vanquished instantaneously upon union. They hurt each other, and break each other down. The gaseous vapor that enriches the air cannot exist without this joint demise.

by SuniD

Poetry

Nocturne

bySuniD

Bravery works in

mysterious ways.

Houselights turn

windows into tvs

flashing reds and blues

against a bottle of wine,

sly sparkling anxious eye,

dilated pupil.

Headlights switch

glass into mirrors.

Roads are satin under

a tire vortex,

tree slideshows.

Nobody’s driving right.

Streetlamps illuminate

love and people

crash into thick

foggy emotions

stirring in the gut.

City lights drown stars

and rain is cold

because it needs.

The moon echoes

a giant occupied

sugar cookie milk

white halo frosted

reflection turning

every wild thing out.

Short Fiction

The Dollar Dance

by SuniD

The exterior of the Community Building was still undergoing renovations, but the inside had been transformed into a glowing reception hall. White lights were wrapped around banisters and draped in the darkest corners, so the honored guests were surrounded by makeshift starlight.

“Never would’ve thought of orange and purple,” said Trina on my left. “The white tuxes were a nice touch, though, don’t ya think?”

“Too much white,” is what I said. Plus, the white dress was a joke. Jessica lost her virginity in eighth grade, is what I wanted to add.

“At a wedding? Never.”

I wrapped my hand a little tighter around the red plastic cup that contained my real friend: liquid courage, bubbly comforter.

“What did you think of the ceremony? I didn’t know what side to sit on. I picked bride, since I’ve known Jess longer, but I got stuck in a back row ‘cause the place was packed.” Trina was already giddy from keg beer and her smile engulfed her flushed face. “It was on the left. Is that the bride side?”

“Yeah.” I remembered having the same sort of dilemma. My heart had said bride, but when the usher asked, my mouth had said, groom. Trina’s small talk got away from me during the brief recollection so I blurted out, “I love that the pastor called her, ‘Jennifer,’” to change the subject.

Poetry

Sustenance

by SuniD

 

Little chickens broil

and the peace simmers

like a part-time chef

who enjoys the rush

because the dull moments allow

him time to think

about home spun meals.

The line-cook toils,

getting thinner,

because he doesn’t get

the people who grow lush

and fat over the noon hour.

He’ll never miss the stink

of fast food meats.

A broth base boils

ready for a thickener

such as corn starch or flour

or another mush

that cools and sets

so the soup will settle in a sick

stomach easily.

Short Fiction

Schooled Proper
by SuniD

This place I hear about, Old School Pool, hosts a tourney on Mondays, and its only five bones to enter. Everyday players, hustlers, and the like put up their dough once a week. The more people show, the bigger the kitty. The hall has a rep for a couple a reasons. Down the block from the train station, up the street from everyone’s dealer, it sits on a bad corner of south Tenth. Plus, they say bikers park there. Don’t get me wrong, bikers got attitude to match mine, but you got to approach ‘em the right way, and walking into their bar uninvited is never the way. I do it anyway.

Right off the bat, before I hit the door, this guy decides he’s taking me home. Talks about my cue case and how he might just have to play this week, shows me his belt buckle, a creepy vulture, figures. At least I know this is the spot. “Where’s the pisser?” I ask, before he shows me his other tattoo. I back away, spin at the door and break right.

No shame in walking straight to the bathroom in a new bar. Stalls tell you everything you need to know, intimate shit. I’m relieved to see skillful stuff magically marked and engraved on the door in front of me. Real wood grain, and someone took time to carve an elaborate female with a knot for a nipple. In the hand of the porcelain goddess rests a bold sharpie statement: Find what you love. Love what you find.

Flash Fiction

Mr. Nicks Skips Town
by SuniD

D.L. Nicks plays hopscotch with the system since his dad died and his mom bailed. He started skippin' along when he got pinched for a now-and-later at Quick Shop on Spencer and Ninth. He asked the older foster kids to buy it first. He checked the payphone for a quarter second. The phone-book was gone and already-been-chewed gum jammed up the slot. “Fair” was not in that boy's vocabulary. Nothing ever was fair for him. That's why he needed that candy. He nabbed a green one, unwrapped it going out the door, and barely had any saliva built up before the clerk with hair pins and squinted eyes slapped him on the back of the head and knocked the sour-apple right out of him. He was five.