I have been interested in how much pressure a sentence can carry before it becomes event. These loaded minis began as a compression exercise and became a small field of charged disturbances.
Grandma molted knives.
My bathroom apologized.
Skeletons filed taxes.
My shadow itched.
Reality grew gums.
My organs unionized.
God married static.
Moon wants custody.
Cradles grew teeth.
Heaven locked downstairs.
Mothers buried laughter.
Dawn arrived hungry.
Tomorrow wore mold.
The hallway hatched.
God slept downstairs.
Skin opened softly.
Pillows learned mourning.
My name molted.
The crib sang.
Night chewed patiently.
Eyes bloomed inward.
Mirrors started lying.
Yesterday arrived late.
Shadows refused owners.
⁂
Wallpaper ovulated; floral eggs bulged beneath every seam overnight.
The ceiling lactated, dripping warm milk into our cereal.
God misplaced Thursday; Wednesday repeated, and Friday went feral.
Pigeons inherited capitalism, then charged rent for every breadcrumb.
Furniture remembered its trees; the sofa grew roots overnight.
My résumé gained sentience, then applied for better candidates.
The elevator grieved; every floor reminded it of falling.
Gravity filed a complaint; we floated pending the hearing.
My voicemail outlived me, still accepting appointments through Thursday.
Teeth held a vote; the molars demanded representation first.
The staircase developed opinions; every step argued a direction.
Breakfast evolved ambition; the toast ran for local office.
The calendar bled; December leaked slowly into everyone’s shoes.
The staircase apologized by growing an extra step overnight.
My reflection arrived early and refused to mimic me.
Every window in town began dreaming the same fire.
The soup remembered my name and started boiling harder.
A polite fungus colonized the piano and learned Chopin.
The hallway kept lengthening whenever anyone mentioned forgiveness aloud.
My teeth developed opinions and rejected several important conversations.
The lamp grew antlers and stared through the power outage.
Our mailbox laid an egg containing tomorrow’s eviction notice.
My doorbell developed empathy; now it sees twenty clients daily.
By dawn, the garden had replaced every rose with ears.
I’ll leave it here for now. What do you think?
— Makari
Filed under: Practice in Motion
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