Honeymoon It was at check-in you sensed a change -- in pressure? I don’t know, but the blizzard buried our resort in the woods. The shops closed. The guests scattered. The clamorous slots silenced. This grand, imposing hotel was ours. We were imperious. Then frightened. Run, Danny! You warned. You’re in danger, Mrs. Torrance! I cried. We were hungry. Our reservation canceled. We gathered around the lone surviving croupier like a campfire, found the dice unsolvable. I drew your hot bath in the absurd jacuzzi and joined. But, this concerns the storm, how it broke the trees, erased the roads, oppressed our window with its slanting strength, its elements still haunting the world as rainwater, a descending fog, or the breeze that lifts the gray smoke from my cigar on the back deck where I sit in the sun, if you want to believe it.
Prey You could trust your palms to lambs, your lips to fish, your heart to sirens or sea snails. Now who’s being naïve? You were thoughtfully raised from birth to appeal to the mouth. You appear sumptuous to the world’s most ravenous, ready for harvest. The low moon insists it is eyes season. The prized tongue curses the syndicate of blackbirds already tilting, cleaving the air.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Kenneth Ryan finds himself with part of his family in Southern Oregon – an evolving circumstance.