12 hours ago
He’d raised the toy up to eye level and inspected its cylindrical shape and strange writing and holographic paper stuck around the circle of its body with one eye squinted. He’d turned around the noisy confetti in the kaleidoscope and peered through himself first to test it out, and then took it down to the toddlers eye level and pulled him close lovingly the way a brother or father would.
He’d piped out an elongated Mickey mouse, wooooow! for effect, and his tickling beard wowed with him. He’d patted baby Mikey on his bony shoulder.
Isn’t that cute, Miranda had said, perching her soap-chapped knuckles onto the hew of her hips, he likes you, Gabe.
The sound of keys and the sound of the keys’ metallic intercourse with the door had arrived, and the doorknob was thrust, flopping, in need of repair too long ago. Gabriel was agile and out of Miranda’s window before mom could’ve sworn she’d heard something. Bye bye dada, baby Mikey had said.
Miranda, is dinner ready? Mom creaked in her slurred voice with that bubonic black hair rheumy with the wet of work.
And yet Gabriel dared back through the dirty Disney sheet-curtains thumb tacked over the bedroom window and implored of Miranda a farewell kiss before he’d gone back out into the dusk with a groan.
Miranda had whisper shouted, Seeya later, as he’d run into the firmament of cricketing trees where he was embraced by an intruding dark.
to be continued …
Hmmm – Gabe sounds, so far, like a nice enough guy, but is he really? I guess we’ll find out. 🙂
indeed. indeeeeeeed.
LOL
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
Samantha Lucero presents another bit of the mystery.
thank you so much for the support. someone’s actually reading 😀 lol
🙂
The old whisper shout.
an underutilized technique.
Indeed. This is fantastic so far. Looking forward to more!
so weird to have story readers. feels better than poetry actually.
Sometimes poetry feels like trying to send Morse code messages on a foggy night with a Dollar Tree flashlight.
with a bag over my head.
A Dollar Tree bag.
dollar tree hand soap for after when I feel dirty and that shit melts my skin off from all the cheap chemicals
Nothing like a purifying skin slough. I think we’ve crafted, here, the finest process metaphor for poetry writing.
let the record show.
Reblogged this on S. K. Nicholas.
🖤🖤 see you in Brazil.
Reblogged this on A Global Divergent Literary Collective and commented:
Samantha Lucero/Six Red Seeds
Your use of language makes me salivate
The title is also brilliant