Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!
The river– Cold, of a certain depth, certain speed, enough to conceal . Annie had freckles that hid frowns, dusty eyes—unmanageable red hair like wild wires sitting upon a strange round head. Pulling Jessie’s wet wrists, towards the water, hands slipped away. Annie… Continue Reading “The River (Portrait #1)”