By Peter J.
May’s calendar said March. The picture on it was a painting of a lion sleeping under a tree. The first twenty-six days were unreadable. Little black doodles connected each square from Saturday to Sunday and back. Dots, smileys, bubbles, eyes, and dripping slime. Ying-yangs, zig-zags, x’s, and o’s. Silly things, like weasels in space, mongooses eating mangoes, possums on bicycles. She’d spend hours streaking her pen across the lines and numbers. Sometimes she ignored the borders of days; sometimes she embraced them. Her parents said she wasted time on it.
May thought she was using her days in the best way.
Sometimes you gotta go your own way regardless of what others think.
Very true! Thanks for the comment.
Great one. I like all the imagery, I can see it in my head.
Thank you Nicholas, that was my intention!
Carinna, this is a fabulous piece of writing. It’s a surrealist prose poem that spatializes time and temporizes space in a most endearing and charming way. Last line is a true humdinger! You have a fan!
Wow Smila, thank you so much for your high praise! You’re very correct. I appreciate it! 🙂
I love the double meaning for how she is using her days! Very nice!
Thank you Kelsey!
Amazing imagery; love the x’s and o’s! I really felt that for once all the days were alive and I felt her strength also. Great little story 🙂
Thank you, Anarita! I appreciate it!