Chris Williams
Stories (4/0)
Back River
I lost my feet in the changing sand as I stepped towards the shore. I looked for them with my hands, I made little river deltas in the shallows of the tide, I reached under every bubble, curious if my toes were still there, but feeling okay if I lost them. I lost sight of my friends when they pulled off their legs and turned back into mermaids. I picked up sand and made it mud with my cupped fingers, my hands a chalice of clay filled with salt water. I sat cross legged baptizing myself, while a convent of seagulls read out loud from the bible of salt and air. They were singing the same hymn but different parts at once. They were all the Virgin Mary with their white flappy veils for wings in the breeze. They flapped and cried and their wings beat at the tomb of the wind rolling back an Easter Sunday of salt spray. I was comfortable in this church. The pews were being pulled into the altar, one grain of sand at a time, an uncountable amount of prayers under the wash at every high tide.
By Chris Williams 2 years ago in Poets
Spider's Treasure
No one can hear you scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. We used to practice screaming into the night sky, my brother and I. The only two boys in our family. Darius and I had a contest to see who's voice could echo out into the cosmos longer.
By Chris Williams 2 years ago in Fiction