the short story project


Awbrey Collins

Alfus in Limbo

“The maelstrom comes in maestro
as the sun turns in alluvium light.
Twists, turns and breaks of courtesan-sight.

In this right light, a palm meadow,
sits a Sherpa, cascaes his accent,
where would break the light.

And, his turn in shape, her blinks
prepare, where anewd and rare’d;
aback to anon, the streets, bars and churces


       I gave my awe inspired gusto a rest, “That was so familiar, you made it all make less-sense,” he said. Put down my shameful armor to old times’ test so I could clink away in metal chains ande locks made to throw away their keys. Throwing down my summoning abilities and wretched thoughts of nakedness, kissing the sides of Jesus’ face. From the bowels of the beast I beat each crested wave like the light of the ship, to the rhythm of an inviting African Drum. “Pum… Pum… Pum…”

       Beneath my shelter, where I formed like a pearl, upon the eye where a tear from a lost eye that had found its beholder, was a storm. There is bowing to no pressures I knew to paths steady, for my eyes keep watch at the bottoms of my feet. “And, then what will you do? They will have you in their sights, all of your many conspiracies you have passed down about what shall fail.” Beneath the cloak and dagger I would walk beside my brother, still grown to the faults of childhood with danger near. The story you knew, tellers of it talked to me so wise with such jest, with bravado not gusto I never climbed that mountain, to test time’s test. I thought I spoke like a coward, seward, never afraid of the war. I was civilities, not morals and maxims, but waged were long passing histories and so was I told to hide no-more.

       My own shroud around me would wrap itself with the workings and pledge to the craft that are spider’s nightly work. My resolution in that sparkle of the spun web reflected against that moon. “No, no, don’t be hasty. She has summoned the reinforcements of Egypt to the call of Sumatra. It is in the stars…” Across the river from Mesopotamia, along the riffs of travels and traverlers like down the Tennessee river valley. Where I find my peace inside, the sky turns to green like the sea sky monster after the big orange moon. Through the boards of the boat, along the song I followed where the heart feeds in found place of whom. I sing…

       Protecting only the things I love to share again as a man — to tell the tales of the kings or pass the great words from the wise. Warriorous men, “Yes, now there is something for me to bring up,” passing time, remember the flash back position in context of the foreground, not to lose my shroud. Tis’ this gift and a talent behind every breach brides; bidding, the over langish beauty upon every lovely lie is cause for such awe of each and every year’s preaching about skies. Adorning in the Hebrew hell, spelled red from brown like the scars that had been picked at for years. Gave the work hands of ambidextrous women what I learned studying, and how whom you reach ties, that pressing against luck for eavery reach, ready reach I – in nearly knowing – birth in man-mouth male knowledge’s mise.

       “I am nearly late for my own party,” … late where all is asked of who it was I am. Guised and standing ready to know presence from return of disturbance, shadows that work only in circles are very reassuring. One-day to work, only because I have seen no sun that does bring darkness through the nebula of thought or lethargy. It was harder to play noble then hard tis to play king, but in my experience, “… makes sense, if you make sense of it. Okay, maybe,” it stops now and in between, the shadows. Not all memory extinguish so well, leaving behind its furies. It should be told just one more of my things, still one thing that two-timers own up to, “MAGNIFICENT!” he exclaims.

       I am not out on conch and living jest where the mischief follow, waiting for the haunchy reverberant echoes which a heartbeat borne into something that was listened to whilst following along. Stopping to a rhythmic line to pick-back-up the line in mind that sounded much so more familial. Posterd along the scene, a path to the difference, so his peculating alters this awreness where no posting signage or pauses of posted caution catch the attention. “Now, do we go to point ‘A’, or to-be?” Teaching the trinity from the oblivion of polytheism, Gods from hero quotients, and the mathematical precision doubt, a sort of hope. Posting the scores from the Olympics on a mountain, and a fire lit to remind the end of the games beginning revelry. Returned to the gorilla nest, the family tree, Alfus says now, “WOW! This painting is beautiful.” Reminded more of whom, rather where, “Now those nests actually look like nests!” he said.

       Prompted, the regular err of errors of a familial sight, to bring back the lines that continued too long, and extending a sort of self-sufficient grammer-like slang to lean on the conseqeunces of speaking rhetorically. Was it bliss? It is found to be personal. To each fresh foods yet be swayed by the end-all-ends of knowledge where gross profit and civilization has over taken the long-thought proccess of humanization. Where is it the written scentence runs on to speak ages if its most poetic and precise elaboration does the most damage?

       Drug in the dust, and left to the mud, was not taught at all to fit in. Rarely finding out by sleep and more by diffidence, if he found out his dreams of building cathedrals and knows it as righteous, to clear the streets of the river-silt. “Should we be in the embankment, like the life of the party. Or, should we take this leap?” Heaving the heathen breaths that cling to finished work, the unfinished work squeezed tighter, going limp, a mind which drifted closer to the swarms of quotations, not diplomacy. It should be easier because it is all done for you, fighting a war from within that is. Like swirls of gnats, he continues, “If I fight that fight, and I wind up winng her over…”. She still baptize herself in the swirls of image that misguide the flows into its banks. Like a creek taking up the bank, down the river that runs into our flood is coming from the doors every Sunday, Sunday silt.

       The denial, or close winded-air on the side of racket, is both experience of the memory and the making this memory to remind oneself. The cold Colosseum jeers danced like erased pencil’s markings in competition, and she would think to rewrite the Colosseum tabulation so it prescribed critiques of that sweaty air. The same heavy tenseness that arroused affection and affliction, both the brave soul willing to flash back to freed minds from eacy fighting in dark training basements. “So, now ya’ know,” he said so he could hear his voice and wonder, why finding heir. Breaking off of death, endlessly asked to beg behind unopened doors to end the landslide of pressure. Behind each closed door is heard eternity calling. The howl of the working void is like wormwood and works of gall. Visualizing the twists of tale while waiting out knowing whom she had flashed that pretty smile in a crowd. She was prepared to be danced around on solid heel point, until her points had polished off.

       To take her failure, Alfus would not complete the hailing of reprieve, glistening from the hunting eye. It seems to offend the crowd. She smiled, lost itself in altering the combat, but witnessed the rare and hared usefulessness of becoming listened to in spaces once silent. The sun light they say: a blessing from above, not did Ra not watch the pyrimads blow out the sun. Blessings were unusually talked about, and usually, they took in their own vantage of culture. The vague eights of being beneath stone tabulations is a kind memory to make you think, write, or aspire to remember. Would-be heavy until thought is less of managed: philosophy and contest. Marks were set in letting go where before I forgot little– some things just get etched too quickly to stone or play monkey-in-the-middle.

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