11 February 2009

nathan tyree

Blood and Bourbon

After they reduced her to white ash rendered from bone, then crushed it to a fine powder, we stored her in the bedroom while we waited for the intermi-nable winter to pass. It had always been winter as far as we could tell. When the sun returned we would take the painful drive to Colorado to re-lease her to the mountain. The Rockies can have her now. We can't any-more. Then there's all that weight that we lost. Not to mention faith and dignity. I've been thinking about mixing blood with my bourbon.

What Wikipedia Doesn’t Say About Virginia Woolf

…filled her pockets with stones and walked into the river. She chose the tor-rent, the obverse of the slow tick of minutes stealing the details that were her life. The rush and flow pulled her down without a struggle. Just as well, really. The other option is blunt force trauma when the big truck runs the stop sign. Chest crushed. Legs cut free from the body. Exsanguination is not poetic. It wouldn't look good when they made the movie of her life.

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