Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Make It Up Monday #1: 52 Weeks of Wordage
There was something he was supposed to remember. There was something he was supposed to remember, but he was darned if he knew what it was. John tried to focus his thoughts through the soft sweater fuzz that seemed to cover his brain. What was he supposed to remember? It was on the tip of his tongue, like the bitter taste of this morning's coffee. He hadn't had a decent cup of joe since his wife died a week ago. No, that wasn't right. A month ago? Maybe a year. That woman knew how to make coffee. John looked around him at what was once his proud home. It was really starting to show its age, like him. He glanced down at his feet. Where were his boots? Who had taken his boots? He needed his musket by him all the time now, to protect him. John closed his eyes and tried to remember. The effort made him sleepy. He leaned back in his chair. He had been a hero once. He knew that much.