Category: Portraits

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 Fern (Portrait #5)

This stream is the coldest my hands have ever touched. If there is a bottom to its shallowness, I can’t find it. The water seems so damned clear, too clear. I think I should be able to see, but I can’t. It must be…

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The Rope (Portrait #3)

  The snow is blamed, it always is, as mad as you get at it, as mad as it makes me. But, I know, like you do, now, it’s always the rope. The others don’t realize the rope’s properties, as a living thing. They aren’t…

The Instrument (Portrait #2)

  I stumbled upon her, hidden behind a large sliding door, within the comfort of darkness, unmoved, silent. Is that possible? She seemed so old, so incredibly old, as if one touch would turn her into dust. And dust was inside, so much earthly…

The River (Portrait #1)

  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…

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