|the shiniest of shinies|
10: UntitledWhen did all old men become my father? I watch his stooping, shambling gate. Not long for this world, that one. It’s a mercy, when you think about it.10: Untitled by angeljunkie
The plastic grocery bag bumps against his shin.
Someone worse than me could always come along.
It doesn’t take long.
The grocery bag has half a soda bottle of dirty water, some tins of fruit cocktail and a small, plastic alpaca. I toss the water and keep the rest.
There’s still more work to be done.
9: The AngelSnow brought the Angel to us. He didn’t say he was an angel, but we knew anyway because of the Miracles.9: The Angel by angeljunkie
The first Miracle happened on that first day. Kyle was very sick and might die, but the Angel knew special plants that were medicines and fixed him.
The second Miracle happened with a little rabbit. Ethan Family 3 found it by the boat house and it wasn’t moving. The Angel held it in his hands. Then he opened them and the little rabbit hopped out.
The third Miracle happened with the little rabbit, too. When the Angel held the little rabbit, he glowed, but he told us this was a secret and not to tell anyone.
The Angel brought the stories of the Nameless. He said they were old old old, old as the earth, and the
8: The HourglassHer face – her face was the problem. When had she gotten such an old woman’s face? All the lines in it like those topographical maps of mountains. She never thought it quite fair of God, that trees got to hide their age with rings on the inside, while women had to wear all their cracks on the outside.8: The Hourglass by angeljunkie
Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about it now. The world would just have to deal with her wrinkles and get over it. She wrapped her magenta scarf around her head and glanced at the clock – that blasted thing had never worked a day in its life, broken when Ezra decided to bring it home and “fix it”, but she still looked at the damned thing every time.
Night after night, he spent hunched over the clock’s innards, poking and tweezing and adjusting. He replaced all the parts, and then replaced them all again. But the
7: TangerinesHer lips tasted like tangerines.7: Tangerines by angeljunkie
Warm citrus, almost sour.
Like those summers in the shed when the heat slid against skin like a snake in high grass.
It crept up on you, ‘til you were caught in its grip before you even knew it was there.
The screen door whined open before it thoked back in place.
Brown grass poked up from the ground like spikes in the relentlessly blue sky.
One more day.
Writer. Photographer. People-watcher. Building-explorer. Terminal idealist. Itinerant magpie. He maintains an impressive collection of names, former addresses, old cameras, and stories told on train platforms.
He's is a true believer in the literary potential of genre fiction, zombies, and that there’s nothing sexier than blank pages wrapped in leather. He spends most of his time scouring eBay for vintage cameras, searching abandoned buildings and taking pictures of people when they aren't looking. His current projects include a coming-of-age novella based on the oeuvre of Hungarian photographer George Brassaï, a dystopian novel set in contemporary America and his thesis, "Deconstructing the Other: Locating the Stranger in 21st Century Post-Apocalyptic Literature".
He's also rather fond of shiny objects.