Meticulous
Because they were teethmarks: the way one struggles, peering across the landscape, toward the foothills, drawing the frame slowly, fingers locked, that meticulous skill, as stiffly as a boxer's, taped, incognizant of the fireworks to come.
Her one way of enhancing the guesswork, making the shuttling more personal, almost like kissing the mirror where one's own finger strokes the backside. Have you measured the cups, the conveyors' yield? Do you know the span? I am the LORD your God, she murmured. Your fever is the shell of my factory, my feral language on your tongue.
Call me Yeats, she murmured. Welcome to my sixties.
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Author's Note
Created from two sets of prompt words by Meg Pokrass. Another micro that makes no sense.
Other stories by Cooper Renner
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Fave. Renner is back In town. I can tell:
"Your fever is the shell of my factory, my feral language on your tongue."
No wasted words.
Very cool. Great rhythm here. Enjoyed.
*
"Call me Yeats, she murmured. Welcome to my sixties." Great closing. Enjoyed this piece.
wow. wow. that last line. the whole thing. wow.
"that made me scared me" as one of my kids used to say when he was, well, scared. Literally gripping from beginning to end! *
You are all very kind. Thank you very much!
Dazzling.
amazing. *
"Your fever is the shell of my factory, my feral language on your tongue."