What's missing from their bodies is nothing compared to what's missing from their heads.
What's missing from their bodies is nothing compared to what's missing in their heads. One man in particular, now almost 80. Wakes to the smell of napalm, cigarette smoke, gasoline. Is he still feverish? Will the fungus rot his foot? But he remembers he's an old man in South Florida, and time has healed nothing. Not the stories or the wounds. Instead it has wrapped them up in a silk cocoon, which binds the ragged edges, but always, the fluttering of unborn wings. A gypsy moth. The large wings powdery and almost translucent. A creature of things best forgotten, because language always dies in his mouth. He gets his coffee in his quiet, Spanish-tiled kitchen. Lets out the dog. Fries an egg. Somebody died that night, that's for sure. Saw him wheeled out on a gurney, zipped up for eternity. The cumulus clouds boil over his head, and the sun is a benediction.
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fine work.
This piece really caught me. Great images and phrases ( I especially noticed "always, the fluttering of unborn wings") and deep connection with this character.
I get the feeling that there's more to this, that there's much more to explore here. But I really like this as a micro, esp this:
"The large wings powdery and almost translucent. A creature of things best forgotten, because language always dies in his mouth."
The whole thing has a powdery, translucent feel.
Nicely done.
*
This has a quirkiness about it yet a real, honest undertone. I can really imagine an old timer saying/feeling these things.(I spend a lot of time in a nursing home.)
"A creature of things best forgotten, because language always dies in his mouth." - Great line! *
A supple density that I like ery much.
The "v" escaped...
*
"and time has healed nothing." That bears a frosty sound. *
Time heals nothing that you can't forget.
Good writing.
every word of every sentence counts. Great work.*
"Will the fungus rot his foot? But he remembers he's an old man in South Florida, and time has healed nothing."
From the concrete to the abstract. Well crafted.*
The clouds boil.
The sun is a benediction.
Language may die in his mouth,but it lives in your lovely words.
Beautiful piece. Agree with all the comments above. Lovely fresh imagery.