February 9, 2012 § 1 Comment
Prompt: Write a story about blood.
Getting old is like planting regrets in the grassland, or squirting eye drop drips of success into the ocean. It grants perspective.
I hate it, always have. I hate it every time, and can feel it swelling in the bones as my blood goes thin as water and starts to cool.
This time my youngest grandson comes to visit me the day before I’m young. He has a joke for a brain, but his father doesn’t. Jason was always a smart boy. The genes runs true, sometimes.
It’s been long since my sins traveled to their father’s house under guard. A long while. Maybe the line is growing strong again, turned hot and bright with the age of steam. That would be kind.
Jason has a gun in towe when he visits with that boy of his. Its long and gleaming, greedy as the man it’ll have to kill. I look at them both. Love them, want them. Their pulses beat like footfalls, in time with mine, approaching. My family, my blood, my youth.
“Dad,” Jason pleads, an arm around his boy, voice wavering. I smile, lick my lips. They’re old and salty like the water welling in his eyes. He just doesn’t understand.
I hate growing old.
March 11, 2011 § Leave a comment