Casia Miguel Lanier
To make a reader retch zieself in an attempt to understand, to love and imagine all of life beyond zir own skin - to convert and cavort a single image or word or phrase into an entire universe drives my ego. Reader, pray render me wordless.
HAIR BEADS & DRUMS
“Don’t touch the drum,” said the elder whose name I’d forgotten. I was a girl and girls can’t touch the drum. We were in Potawatomi territory in those days, and if a girl touched the drum it might disturb the ancestors.
Summer night misters tip their hats at warm, toasted spirits while tall grasses sing the blues to hide away lovers laying ‘bout and saying nothing, pointing at the sky and tickin’ off stars like they was minutes to the universe.
That Dark Fellow in the Ground
The black candy-lacquered hearse pulled up real slow to a bronze-donned cemetery gate about 10 feet high - only 16 feet higher than the maggots making way for Christophe LeBlanc’s soon-to-be-interred body. Lydia, with her French cut and large bosoms, turned as she always did to light her too-skinny cigarette. She was dressed like a widow and acted the part all too well. Sebastian sported a slim black suit, his shirt dismissed of its top fasten and his person set off with just enough jewelry to dissuade the attention of the higher sex. He was a notable balance of lamial comportment and masculine disinterest. He had a small scar just above his right eye where he had caught the wrong end of a poker bet in his youth. He pursed his lips and put his hand gingerly on Lydia’s thigh.