I married foolishly and compensated for the tedium by gaslighting him into believing he’s a character in my Great American Novel, a sweeping saga of multiple lives. In the last chapter, he’s smashed beyond saving by a bomb. Now he rots and moans in the guest room.
I keep stolen wine in my cellar but my secrets are encased in amber & sold to tourists who delve deep into our bloody history then visit the gift store. The killings, the betrayals, they all go home with their new owners, and I can drink my wine without remorse.
She irons charisma on her husband’s shirts & shrewdness along his pants’ creases. She stands behind to keep the starch in him. When he’s elected mayor, she irons elegance into her gown and wrinkles from her cheeks. For his interns, she heats up a tire iron. DEVELOPED.
In search of whimsy, a waif in velvety moss cap blithely caroled birdsong as she skipped from daybreak to nightfall, poking into cobwebs and nooks in search of oddities wherewith to adorn her slightness be it Xmas tinsel or a tender word flown free of torn paper.
The spaceships were Earth-constructions at a time human ingenuity & wizardry peaked, but no one foresaw the violence of the asteroid belt or the space beasts they called dragons. Even warded warships broke & burned like vintage matchsticks.