Metal strikes mineral in rhythmic space.
She is a lean shadow, sat alone. Silent tears shed blending into the briny tide that approach and recede her salt licked feet. Only saline tracks that frame her cheeks tell tale they existed.
Dawn chains to dusk, none saw her arrive, nor leave.
She has just been… there…
Stone in one hand, blade in the other is no game or dream for her
We watch and wonder what on Earth caused this refrain
I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Words unspoken yet heard by all nonetheless
Not what they seem, the tears screen not her melancholy, but her rage
And all we know is: the day she rises will lead to the night someone falls
Today Lisa introduces the pub to one of my favorite writers, Zora Neale Hurston and challenges us to write a piece of prose that is no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line “I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). This can be flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose!
refrain, lead, shed, dream, frame, space, recede, seem, screen, game, lean, chain