Talking letters from the past covered his skin. They left red marks in the post-war world.
The ancient armchair he sat in, the familiar hometown streets he walked, the grandchildren's ears wide open as he tossed stories like German bombs. Reached by the sleeves and held close forever in his memory.
Pulled himself up by his bootstraps every time the rain from the past dared to reign.
I always listened intently, entering estranged hallways he painted, helping me in the heat of hanging on by my fingernails.
The oldest generation never dared to select simple shortcuts.
About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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By Zack Graham5 days ago in Fiction
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