ElizaBell's profile

There is a sour taste in my mouth. There is a sour taste in my mouth and I’m brushing my teeth, brushing over and over to erase the citric lime acidic taste overpowering my tongue and gums and brushing and brushing. There is a bitter taste in my mouth. Bitter after minty fresh erased the lemony sharpness cutting my lips to shreds as I lick them again, dry now and crusted with bitter meaning that slicks my throat until I am coughing and coughing. Hacking, spitting, trying to relieve the pressu...

1.a. To state the precise meaning of (a word or sense of a word, for example). I am utterly incapable of expressing what I have witnessed in the glimpses of souls whose lives intersect mine; b. To describe the nature or basic qualities of; explain. lives numbed by torturous events made commonplace; no boundaries, no place to hide. 2.a. To delineate the outline or form of Gutted candles pool on worn oak table; flames flicker but still burn; b. To specify distinctly human souls drag onward; in...

Spider Solitaire has eaten into my brain. I wake up wondering if I redo enough moves will I be able to win every time? My son hasn’t called in forever. I called him to ask him to Sunday dinner. He said he was going out with friends. I called him to tell him his mail was piling up. He said he’d try to stop by later. Apparently he only lives now, because later hasn’t come. Click, click, click. I particularly like it when the deck is dealt out, that thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut sound. My k...

He slips into the room, air dead between us. I am the enemy -- Adult authority incapacitated by his silence. My nails scrape the surface of his smooth, soul-taut skin. He cringes, curls tightly, hides his countenance within. I try to walk around him only to discover no features, no face. He turns his back. I slide round his side, trying to confront the face I cannot see. Only, I discover, no face is turned from me. It is still his back, each side I step to see. Always his back. Unisided human...

Rip the bread, chew the leavened body meant to nourish my soul. Instinctively, I gag on its salty dryness; reflexively tongue and teeth and saliva reduce to pulp life’s remains. My mouth craves the wine’s soothing flow to wash away the presence. I tip the cup, swallow the acrid dregs, involuntarily grimace. Throat adds its coughing outcry. It isn’t what I expected, this life. I anticipated more, craved more, wanted. What was wanting? He knew the bitterest cup in the garden drained the dregs t...