Abbie Kruse
Bio
Stories (9/0)
Haiku #3
Always never now Whenever then forever Eventually
By Abbie Kruseabout a year ago in Poets
Haiku #4
I remember you at that age, achingly soft in the quiet dawn
By Abbie Kruseabout a year ago in Poets
Haiku #2
Every second ends with a new one on its heels, running from the now
By Abbie Kruseabout a year ago in Poets
Haiku #1
Relentless, carving away the stone of my life like dripping water
By Abbie Kruseabout a year ago in Poets
The Hardest Question
Outside, the wind beat itself against the clusters of huts huddled together against the sea. It battered the fat snowflakes into a white blur as they fell, made the air thick with their frenetic motion. It seemed to cry a question when it moaned, lonely, between the places where people gathered together away from its reach.
By Abbie Kruse3 years ago in Fiction
Drawing a Line
There was a fire in her eyes that made the rest of the world fade to gray. It wasn’t just a reflection of the flame she held in her right hand, a Molotov cocktail dripping incandescent fuel. He saw the light of her internal rage burning there. He was momentarily transfixed, and simply watched as she bent like a bow and hurled the bottle. His eyes never left her, so he didn’t see when the glass shattered beyond the barricade, igniting the legs and feet of their opponents.
By Abbie Kruse3 years ago in Fiction
Next Time
The bush was at least three feet tall, and just as broad, dotted with ruffled orange globes of silky petals. I had paused in my walk through the garden, and put down my tools. I needed both hands free when I crouched and cupped a section of the plant to my face, breathing in the fragrance of marigold leaves and flowers. This was the scent of summer fading away, fall fast approaching.
By Abbie Kruse3 years ago in Fiction
The Last War
I’ve been seeing a lot of armadillos lately. All dead, roadkill. Haven’t seen a live one yet around here. Back when I lived in Arkansas ten years ago there was a herd that lived near my cabin in the woods. I didn’t know we were neighbors until they woke me from a dead sleep one summer night, foraging in the pine forest, tromping around on some corrugated roofing left in a heap nearby. Scared the shit out of me. I lay frozen in the stuffy sleeping loft, listening as the noises migrated around the cabin. All of them together sounded like a bear, or, possibly, several escaped convicts. My barely woke mind concocted several terrifying explanations for the noise before I forced myself to climb down and investigate. The truth was finally revealed by the wavering beam of my flashlight. After that, I’d see them in the daytime pretty regularly. I would sit and watch them, or stroll with them as they moved along digging little holes, looking for snacks. Fascinating creatures. Adorable little prehistoric-ass bastards. They were fearless. Even my dog didn’t scare them. I could walk right up to them, reach out and touch them. I don’t know that they’d ever seen another human being. Here in Illinois I’ve only seen their brothers and sisters on the road: mangled bloody things half-smeared on the pavement.
By Abbie Kruse3 years ago in Fiction
Just a Little Fire
Anger and fear took turns pummeling her insides as she tried to walk quietly through the busy workspaces of the hab. Arm 1 of North American Hab Beaumonde, the only home she’d ever known. The huge, sprawling town was mostly underground, which regulated the temperature inside. She slammed a door closed as she came into one of the greenhouses, finally overcome by emotion. The opacity of the underground ceiling gave way to sky.
By Abbie Kruse3 years ago in Fiction