Hm, brutal honesty anyone?

Question by gracelizabeth.: Hm, brutal honesty anyone?
Please tell me what you think of my new series of short fiction prose poems, thanks in advance 🙂

(these are meant to be random and strange and hopefully charming.)

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1. bigger than the sky.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?,” the teacher asked. The kids went around the room answering “Marine Biologist” and “Video Game Designer.” It came to Jude, and he answered quietly. “An angel.” The same answer he’d always given, for his 11 years of life. The other kids laughed at him now, they said angels weren’t real and maybe he could be the tooth fairy instead. Jude smiled sweetly, “There are 12 in the room right now.” His dark blue eyes glittered the whole way to the counselors office.
They found his body in the wreckage with his arms stretched to his sides like wings.

2. with a heart in nantucket.

“Pigeons are the loneliest animals.” She writes on page 392 of her chemistry book.
They peck around asking “who, who?”
‘I don’t know who.” she says, “but I’ll tell you if I find them.”

3. Humans have to sleep because their face would melt if they didn’t.
Their bones would disintegrate into a fine white powder like high grade cocaine and it would be sold in ounces on the street (you could snort your mother or cousin).

4. wishes spread weeds.

There was nothing between them at first. Maybe a piece of dust floating occasionally, like a white puff of a dandelion seed that your brother blew last summer and got in trouble; they spread weeds, your dad had said.
Gradually though, more grew between them. She knew how he felt when he looked at her a certain way, he began to memorize the number of gold flecks in her eyes when she squinted in the sun. She stopped shuffling her feet and looking away when he spoke to her.
He started telling her his dreams of migrating sparrows being electrocuted on telephone lines.

5. I tried to drown myself in the bathtub once.
From under the water music sounded beautiful, like a sunken orchestra. I opened my eyelids so something would be on them when they finally fluttered backwards. Glancing towards the cracked window, with its red orange light of the city outside, I noticed a tiny faded heart in one pane. My mother must have drawn in in the drops of steam that clung to the window that morning, like butterflies trying to escape. Tracing it with her finger, I wonder who she was thinking of.

6. The dead flies on the windowsill called my name.
They begged me to breathe warm air on them and bring them back to life.
“I’m not David Blaine. I’m not a street magician, or Jesus.” I said.
They said they understood and sat on their colorful backs, like puddles of oil in the street. They stayed there, staring at the frozen bricks and hazy street lights. Until, they disintegrated into tiny shells of bodies, their wings so beautiful and perfect you wanted to make earrings out of them. Then, they were gone. There is no fly Heaven or Hell. The have no inner conflict, they just exist to spread disease and make babies in the flesh of dead rabbits crushed in the asphalt.

7. If I swing on a tire does that make it a tire swing? If it was on fire would it be a fire swing?

8. The girl was so light in his arms.
He was afraid she might float away into the exploding sky so he gripped her bones tighter. He ran down the cobblestone streets, checking around the corners of buildings and columns before he continued running, but the were all empty. The trees rustled brokenly and the groaning in their trunks became the mournful song of that night he tries so hard to forget. He hears that song in his dreams now, amid the fragments of memory and blue. It plays on repeat, with the static of a well-worn record.

9. A Ballad to Mike in Accounting:

I love you.

10. “I drew the rose on your shirt.”
she said quietly to the boy sitting in the desk in front of her. She grabbed her books but left the drawing.
“That‘s cool.” he said, but she was already gone.
36 minutes ago – 3 days left to answer.
Listen to Frank Zappa & The Mothers while reading this 🙂

Also, Simple Guy, don’t take it so seriously. They are meant to be quaint. They give you the exact amount of information I intended to give you so you can form the rest of the story in your own mind with your own experiences.
Works of imagination should be written in very plain language; the more purely imaginative they are, the more necessary it is to be plain.
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

Best answer:

Answer by rockstar77
Could you shorten the question by a few chapters please?

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