Not That Kind of Story

March 2, 2011 § Leave a comment

At the twelfth page

she set down the book.

.

Dust.

.

She went to the fireplace

and stood on the

red paisley rug

her socks sliding up

her calf, down her ankle

.

and everything still.

.

No clock ticked,

though she could imagine

it, as she pushed

.

loose strands of hair

away from her face.

The backs of her legs

.

burned. The house

did not creak.

The wind was gone.

.

Even the fire kept low

and dark, the bricks

solid and hot.

.

If this were a fairytale,

a beast or prince or even

a goblin of some sort

.

would break whatever

spell held here. But today

it was – today, only –

.

the girl, the book,

the empty mantle.

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