CP

In the alcove of the smoke-infested Medusa, over the din of mid-90s rock and pole-dancing Swedes, I had to let the prince down easy.  His hand on my chest, both of mine on his shoulders, I pulled away and let him kiss my cheek, my neck, my hair.  "I can't do this," I yelled in his ear, competing with Hoobastank for the prince's attention.  "I know this usually works out for you - I mean, I figure - but I don't do this."  He didn't stop, weakening my resolve.  I hardly heard myself mumble a pitiful, "I'm sorry," around his lips on my own.

These Feet

To be published in the Castle's literary magazine, The Black Swan!

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These feet have been blistered, burned, frozen, and beaten, but they have never let me down.  These feet are calloused and scared, cracked and worn, and I wear them as a badge for my bravery.  These feet have scraped the bottom of too many pools to count and been thrown into the air by the angry surge of the Atlantic Ocean.  These feet have been bullied and bloodied, but they have endured enough and they know that they deserve a real pedicure every now and again.  These feet have climbed to the tops of towers and belfries, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and stood in Lac Léman in Geneva.  These feet itch and stink – itch for movement, stink of victorious sweat in sensible shoes.  These feet have irregularly cut toenails and bumps and scars and aches and pains that tell the story of my travels and survivals.  These feet have braved hot sand and rain puddles.  These feet stretch and bend, kneaded under tired fingers, before the throbbing in the darkness of another dreamless night.  These feet carry me on walking tours and through museums; they’ve touched marble and stone and grass the world over.  These feet have carried me to my dreams, screaming in agony but never backing down.  These feet are ugly and tough and ruined, and they have never faltered.  These feet luxuriate in damp boots and wool blankets alike.  These feet will never let me stop moving.