Dropping her coat on a chair she went out into the back yard and turned her face up to the sky. The rain was a soft drizzle.
She remembered all her mistakes, the hundred sandbags she’d gathered and stacked around her sandstone house built on the thick slipping local brown sand. She remembered the regrets she’d borrowed from others and hoarded like treasure.
She remembered most of all whispering over the drone of an engine that she’d been broken, hasn’t everyone been broken? And she realised, as the sun broke like honey, that ‘yes’ is the hardest word to say.
I realised the other day that I keep posting these little flashes with mostly no explanation. All the short short pieces I write are 100 words long, not including the title. It's an arbitary discipline, but I enjoy working within that restriction. Right now, with hormone-brain sapping my concentration, 100 words is also about as much as I can manage ...
Anyway, I was saving this piece for the collection I'm (secretly) trying to put together, but I thought it was somehow relevant to the discussion about Bukowski and the artist and the work and whatnot, and I wanted to say thanks for all the fascinating and thoughtful responses to that post.
The title is as yet uncertain.
Edited to add: In fact, the whole piece is as yet uncertain. Heh.
And also: Sorry if you came by looking for erotica. I appear to have taken a side road this year. I'll probably circle back there at some point.