From the bed, my head heavy as hibiscus, I watch her zip into a strapless gown, then sit at her dressing table. She touches Joy to her wrists. Across the veranda, the Trinidadian night is spangled like navy tulle. I breathe deeply, waiting for her perfume to make me giggle. I kick my legs, eyes shut as the tropics rain inside me. “Are you being silly?” she asks, studying her face in the mirror as she presses red lips to a tissue. I tumble to the floor, too small for this world, assaulted, undone.
Beverly A. Jackson is an artist making memories in Naples, Florida, living alongside an alligator in a backyard lake.
What is compression to you, both in general in in this piece? Memories, to me, are compressed life. Like little marbles, they rattle around in my brain, just a few quarks, not the whole hadron. My head is full of marbles, this being one of them.
What is compression to you, both in general in in this piece?
Memories, to me, are compressed life. Like little marbles, they rattle around in my brain, just a few quarks, not the whole hadron. My head is full of marbles, this being one of them.
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now OPEN. The reading period for standard submissions closes June 15, 2021. Topical Thursdays’ submissions are open year-round. Submit here.
08/30 • Andrew Warnke
09/02 • TBD
09/03 • David Hargreaves
09/06 • June Avignone
09/09 • TBD
09/10 • Laurence Musgrove
09/13 • Zoe Dickinson
09/16 • TBD
09/20 • Karoline Schaufler
09/23 • TBD
09/27 • Joan Wilking
09/30 • TBD
10/04 • Kim Chinquee
10/11 • TBD
10/18 • TBD
10/25 • TBD