130 Tales: 21 through 30

And already, it’s happened: I’ve fallen behind on posting these things that I’m literally copying and pasting from an open file, just like I had fallen behind in the creation of these 130 Tales the first time. I do, however, think I have a reasonable excuse, but excuses are excuses and really what I need to do is realize yes, I can write posts days in advance and set them to automatically publish at the future time of my choosing. Any way, with Fringe taking the majority of my time and my not having the internet at home, and, oh yeah, that flood / black-out thing that happened in Toronto yesterday (ugh… still managed to squeeze those excuses in here somehow, didn’t I? Why am I not surprised?) I’m finally posting the next instalment, the third instalment of 130 Tales today. Wednesday. Not Monday (really, I’m the only one keeping track of this).

This, like I said in my last addition to 130 Tales, is where, I think, the tales get interesting. I actually enjoy the majority of what was written in this decade; I feel like I finally let myself have fun with the limitations set upon myself. Let’s hope it continues until the end.

130 Tales

# 21 – 30

21. His eyes flutter above the scrim, from rope to hinge, weight and follow. Swallowed in black he alights on actor: jealous white.

22. The blade, sharp as wit feels nothing. Gliding smooth beneath his hand it curls up flesh, wood and finds buried treasure.

23. The three of them stare, reddened. Born of different times and morals, they finally become one as she dances this duet, partnered.

24. Form deflated, eyes down. She walks awkwardly, catching herself. Her lips read her thoughts: “Why haven’t I grown out of this?”

25. I second guess my hunger as I stand in a cafe watching two fruit flies court amidst the sugary folds of a strawberry Danish.

26. As she leaves he steals her eyes one last time. A short kiss without ever touching. Gifts given, they smile deeper than any other.

27. His hands open this book methodically. His fingers lick every page, tasting its life, eyes digesting himself for the last time.

28. I can hear the bass’ vibrations enter my shoulder; it is a touch, resting on glass, that caresses two of my five senses.

29. Her foot often kicks air. It is a hobby, if feet can have hobbies. But there it goes, kicking as the city shrinks out the window.

30. His heart screams. A breath is stopped, bubbling, boiling. Yet he sits, legs crossed, unable to move. Almost there.

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Published by

A. Gaboury

An emerging playwright, devisor, actor and director, Andrew spends most of his time dreaming beneath those beautiful willows.

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