Tag Archives: microprose

Immortal

I was seventeen the first time I died. It was gentle, like the dying of a star. My heart stopped, you said, for fifteen minutes.

I died a thousand times between then and now. I died again at nineteen and twenty-two and thirty-seven and a hundred and three; I died in war and in bed, with valor and in obscurity, alone and in your arms. All I remember is the dark and the shape of my name, how it fluttered against the wind: a kite tugging on a string.

Next time, I think, next time I will bring a knife.


Astronomy

Some nights, you set up the telescope. Tonight, we lie on the blanket instead.

“Cygnus. Cepheus. Cassiopeia.” Your arm follows the sweep of the sky, like a caress.

Four inches from your hip and light years away, I hardly dare to breathe.


Anthology

Some stories are not meant to be long. A few words scribbled on a napkin. A name. A number.

Some stories are written in the dark, read under neon lights. A few strokes of the pen.

Some stories end before they begin.