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Fiction Friday: The Porch

Mrs. Pauley is squawking again. I spring onto our porch, ducking among potted plants, just like a secret agent.
“Mom! There are squads across the street!”
At the screen door, Mom wipes her hands on her apron.
“That mess is none of your business, bubba.”
The officer shakes his head as Mrs. Pauley’s mouth moves. Our landlord is there too. I wonder why. He rubs his forehead, checks his watch.
They guide her away from the house.
“Forty years!” Mrs. Pauley squawks, “Forty years!”
Her cane falls. I compromise my secret agent status, dashing to catch her, but she crumples.

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Death Grip

A prose poem for you! In response to Writing 201’s Poetry Prompt: Fingers.

That bar has an air of annoying superiority. An unnaturally violent reaction surges. Digit by digit, I press her cocky windpipe. My thumb closes around her black rubber. Choked. The floor drops from my feet. Dangling on hope. I start the swift ascent, exhaling out spongy lungs’ weight, fears and failures. Fresh found lightness lifts my chin above a lifeless bar. Ah! There’s the victor’s view. A moment on the top. Now gravity, my enemy. Muscles trembling, chlorophyll-less leaves in an autumn breeze. I am grabbed and grounded, releasing grip. The bar revives, she breathes and taunts, asks to be choked once more.