A Story In 100 Words

Some of us are birthed rigid, leather left too long in the sun, so carefully struck dense beneath hands. Everyone and everything’s hands. Shaped into whatever it is we play at long before your shadow cooled me. You knit something soft overtop, fingers of catgut dancing like satin ribbon and for a time there is a concealing, something less than painful looming in the mirror. And though we both knew I would ravel and tear with so many seams under the strain of your weight, I knew the taste of skin on your throat, and we made the world spin.

Nick Christian is a poet and fiction writer who currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.

Please support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. Check out Quitting The Grave, a murder mystery set on the Oregon Trail. Plus, don't forget my other books: They Both Loved Vonnegut, Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland, and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.