Little Boxes

Interior photograph of a dilapidated house. Outside the window there is a tree.

The boxes on the hillside weren’t meant to last. They kept out the spiders and mould for as long as they were cared for; eventually no one cared enough to sweep and polish and mend.

Like peeling paint on cladding, once-held ideas shed in slivers and revealed a void that used to be invisible to dream-led minds.

When a better way of being came into reach, the people left to live closer to the trees.

[This microfiction was first published online by Paragraph Planet.]

The Golem and the Girl

Born or remade
out of fertile clay
of the coastal lowlands,
out of stagnant clay,
in squelchy corridors.

Shadows shudder and reshape
in the girl’s doorway—a clay figure
fired up, made hard
by rage.

Gaping holes for eyes,
filled to the brim with liquor,
seeping through the shell,
stains showing on the outside.

She grasps for the swooping beam,
the lighthouse that guards her shore.
But the light fails.

Fury pours
out of a vessel
into a vessel,
grinds,
until hairline cracks
soil her mortar.

Another shore, across the strait,
her only escape,
where bygone lanterns
light rocky corridors,
where she becomes
Mary or Rebecca.