Anna Cunningham
Bio
Longtime poet residing in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains
Stories (25)
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Daddy
Daddy is mad again. He got mad last night when he came home and I made them both sad, and I think he’s still mad at me now ‘cause he’s not here and all of the other Daddies- well, Mommies mostly- have come already because they’re happy like Tabbitha and don’t let each other spill cups all over the place and on Daddy’s new shirt. Mommy said it would come out, but that’s what she said about the tomato sauce, and it is all orange down my front now and I remember when it was red, and before that it was white.
By Anna Cunninghamabout a year ago in Fiction
Imaginary Ghosts. Imaginary Implosions.
the thunder was so loud at one point it boomed like the explosions inside of my head Violent, painful, searing, inevitable, altogether imaginary. Imagine running running running for days on end No Sleep only rests inbetween madness. You thought you saw a ghost, but you were also that spirit haunting the house. Darkness, wet footprints leading to the basement, cabinet doors gaping open and drawers of silverware left to hang at an angle over the kitchen floor. Silence, but in your head gas leaks and then the water leaping out of the shower head, the bathroom faucet vomiting into the tub and your clothes wet from the scalding water pummeling your back. still clothed and then Outside, nighttime running with wings Arms outstretched, beating against the ground trying trying trying always to gain altitude; to gain flight but running out of room within your lungs Strides shortening and then your breath punching out of your body in heaves, relatively stilled and panting under the one dim streetlamp holding back the dark. But it can't be held back within you
By Anna Cunninghamabout a year ago in Poets
