I know what I'm doing

Rita kept her fuzzy strapped pink slippers and matching laced negligee chilled in the lower neglected family waters at tentacles reach.

Her skin glistened like frosted dew in the moon's wane, ready to melt under the firm embrace of an intellectual bipedal man, if only he’d risk a late night swim in a losing tide uncovering tentacles flailing with knives, forks and mirrored shards.

B.F.M.

Show You the Door

If I show you a door, do I need to supply dialog? Would it be the same as a window looking out into gray harsh misted field where buffalo once roamed in rooms as large as dinosaur skulls? There is a Neanderthal boy in the field, running, playing or fleeing it hasn't changed. All these, are things of a changing order taking millions of years during which a trillion-billion-million snow flakes will fall, then you will be born. Broken. Healed. Broken. Chased across a field of dandelions. Loved. Madness bouts. Loss. Then you or I will be eaten by a yet to be named virus that causes someone to dream a reality that makes you believe you are the beginnings of a sun.

B.F.M.