who Marla was

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 01, 2013

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Submitted: June 01, 2013




we were taking the train back from Atlantis, only the bottom fell out and an ocean leaked from underneath; we ran in place like the moon and made it move.  water trickled through windows as we wishfully floundered, but a leatherish fear had filled the cracks of our feet.  rather appropriately, Marla looked like trout under glass, and her eyes resembled undeveloped film.

She was a fiction writer mostly, not to mention fat with misery and the sort of glucose that tries to save the heart from choking but always suffocates it instead.  sadly, Marla had lost all her money at the casino amid hollering flatliners and pissed drunk drivers.  it seemed everyone was submerged in the garish carpet, the wine stains made ugly little islands barnacled with gamblers.  when the cabbage stink of the place eventually rose to her nostrils she swore she'd never come back.

now, in the seats behind us, girls were discussing lesbian politiks.  just an avid progression of fake red mouths reading meaning into orgasm paintings of the Louvre. She eagerly waded into the shallow end of conversation.

it was only tedious until we all were drowned.

several days later, when she washed up smart and fat, nobody knew who Marla was.


© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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