By Tony Press
Paint splatters the way hope crumbles. The distance between real and imaginal was far closer than the Sisters had taught. Strange pedagogy.
Twelve years of Catholic school never goes away. It accompanies you, omnipresent, dangling in a pendant on an invisible chain.
Dance school, then dance in Chicago, in Miami, in Bogota, in Mexico City. Strain ligaments once too often. Dance no more.
The gaping apartment on Vida Avenue, unfurnished, unpainted. The postman’s welcoming smile as he hands her the postcard from Tallahassee. Tallahassee? Teresa, I’m sorry. Alex.
She spins another can of paint down the hall, opens a bottle, weeps.
Such an evocative piece. Well done!!
Well done, Tony.
Nice angle. Well done.
Beautifully done, Tony! (And I love that you let “dance” hold three of the one hundred one places.)
Yes, dance!
‘Paint splatters the way hope crumbles’… ain’t it the truth. We’ve all been there. Excellent job, Tony
A nice story – evocative and thought-provoking.
It certainly is evocative, and telling. Very nice, though not very nice as well.
Great opening line that set the tone.
Excellent opening! It sure feels that way sometimes. Great story 🙂