Steve French
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A Hardy Species
Cloaked in the whirling stems of rye we’d watch him for hours. After school we’d hop off the bus, Marla and I, and drift through the crops out past the house and bury ourselves cheek-high in those feathery acres of grain. From the asylum of the fields we’d spend those sundown evenings monitoring him by the fence, in and out, as he would vanish into that old barn.
By Steve French5 years ago in Humans
Garlic
Delivered to recipient “Arnold M.” at IX: 8.32.6.1030 Do not be afraid. These messages cannot be traced, for that is why we have foregone the network, and subsequent trail of metadata, and contrived them instead in this archaic manner of those once-poets. First and foremost, take care to commit them to memory alone, else our efforts will surely be spoiled. Do not be afraid also, that I, at the behest of my employer, have placed this note atop the center of your undistinguished, yet impressively secure 282nd floor auto-scullery porcelain countertop. I shall pursue an equally suitable location in your unit for each preceding message, next perhaps, upon the teal surface of your aged 6.5 year daughter Darlana’s credenza, who is of the moment, lodging with her divorced mother, 4 times weekly, in her 423rd floor unit across the city.
By Steve French5 years ago in Futurism
