Clean up on Isle 9

An ocean of greens and blues stain
her gold face that's illuminated underneath
fluorescent light bulbs. Bleach brightens each
hair strand, and hairspray sticks to her
burnt scalp. Pink gloss glides across her lips,
and fades to a black and purple hue.
She bites her nails down to the cuticle,
so she gets plastic replacements.
Diamonds, that make good lies
and they cover her hands and drip
around her neck. But those pearls,
sit in the bottom of her dresser drawer.
Real like her mother’s homemade apple pie.

In the Event of an Emergency (Flash Fiction)

In the event of an emergency, I found myself annoyed. I was annoyed that the blood dripping down my arm had stained my white dress. I wanted it to be a fairy tale—Mrs. Cinderella and Mr.  Prince Charming. The dress was so expensive too. I had saved for five years to buy it. I had it even before he proposed (I never told him that though). My lips were a bluish hue… they looked like I had just eaten a lollipop or a cotton candy snow cone. My gold curls were tangled into a spider web of knots. My black mascara outlined my eyes like a raccoon. And all that was going through my mind was not how I looked or what condition I was in...it was Jeremy's face as he stood there in sock as half of my arm was sliced straight down the center to the bone. But my dress was not the same dress I saw in "Wedding Day Magazine" five years ago when I was in college. In college I worked at a grocery store. This is where I first saw the dress. Instead of welcoming customers into my line at 7:30 in the morning, I decided to pick up that magazine and pretend I was someone else... planning my dream wedding. My manager gave me a two week suspension for not providing "optimal customer service." When I woke up...my dress was off. In its place was a tissue looking night gown. I had clear plastic tubes up my nose and an IV in my arm. I began to panic. I searched my tall naked body for stitches or bandages. Nothing. I grabbed my purse off the night stand and pulled out my mirror in my makeup bag. I looked at my face and counted a total of 17 stitches on my forehead.

Pink elephants at the flea market

Burnt pine needles in the steamy streets,

uniformed trash cans lined up with eggnog cartons

            stained yellow with rainbows of lips

touching every cut and blister that brakes

into her rough skin and wrinkles into blue patterns

            cutting wrapping paper and tying red velvet bows  

piled underneath toy dolls and tiny car models

boxes from Aunt Gia torn and destroyed

            linger the scent of rusty perfume

with flowers on bathroom walls and taunting porcelain  

smiles that hide in corners and the hair of Fefe

            curled up between my toes

 warm apple pie sanitizing the air vents, and chocolate

 chips fatting each breath and melody of

             reindeer and red light bulbs.

Grandmas insinuations make uncomfortable

white lies but her pink elephants soon arrive

            and dads aches worsen with cries,

ripping disks that are aged and words

curse His name at the splintered butcher hand

            that bleeds and the ashy taste

vanishes when I awake, and there are no bells

just bananas that have blacken with

 the sweet sense of routine.