Two Fictions
Angela Stubbs

The Trouble with Trespassing

I like the woman I meet. She did not know I'd arrive needing everything packaged in familiar paper. I knew destiny had a margin of delusion but found it difficult not to proceed in spite of clumsiness. She became my not-mother. Aware and awake takes its place in her eyes. Knowing what is needed is a gift inherent in any woman who's blood, sweat and tears are expelled for another. DNA would otherwise link me to her but, I swam connected to another. She said, "I've got a secret" and share with her what happens in the absence of stasis and grace. I announce I've crumbled and rebuilt the walls that secure the tissue and cosmetics of the body. The woman reveals she's been in a war, too. She consists of bricks. Her birth was all stars and water and mortar. A mold that split into pieces where wrinkles normally crease skin and imitate old age. She did not suffer the sister shadow of time.
Even though she knows she's one of the chosen she feels she won't choose to make choices that don't involve choosing. Over the years the indelible mark of harsh subjects and predicates altered her heart. However, she unlike you only suffered the average effects of conversations gone awry. This draws an interesting parallel. The last sentence of past dialogue always exemplifies the intimate knots of intricacies imprinted on the psyche.
Ambiguity once ran into the woman on the street. Confusion cluttered the decision at hand. A twisted path before her, she constricted vessels and heart strings for fear of further damage. She preferred spoons to knives and became watchful for those on her turf. Caution trespassed into the grooves and thickets surrounding her kingdom. Beyond exterior doors she felt the stories of triumph and strife in photographic episodes.
I tread water in a room that's bursting with fluid, pressing on her compassionate parts, causing formality to question its question. Each road to the gate of new beginnings was covered with roots and tangled tiers of perception. It's here the woman knows her place amongst those needing to belong. How could I'm not speaking her speak speak? She speaks me. I process vowels, consonants and predicates. The purpose is filled thrice inside an artificial heart. She makes lovely middles with band-aids and patent leather galoshes so to wade through results.
She can disassemble me in five seconds flat. Arriving at disfigured letters while they reverberate in her eardrum makes for noise that quiets with only a little bit of take and a whole lot of give. Like the whip of the tail in her name, the woman remains quick-witted with a touch sting. If she's mostly pillows and cotton candy, should I fear twilight? Ability trumps luck and overrides things with a purpose. Looking through a corrective lens she now sees my impulse pulsing, always imploding in any given situation. If I leave my sleep by the door, discovered experiences tend to run amok. A whispering voice makes an escape from the wound in my flesh. In the evenings she stitches it up with moonlight.
The shift of an eyebrow indicates I should lie down and listen. With a heart full of blood and water, her emotions discursively dangle by a thread. She's wondering which is really thicker. I grab hold of the thin line and squeeze.

The Space Between Unloud Wishes of Re(a)d Words

My saving grace makes all the difference because scars are what you contemplate. As I mentioned, the life and the pictures. Do not forget that. The awkwardness of this crazy person connects with the role you will play. These feelings might become psychology if for whatever reason. Angst and a material object. Given how a patient already is often personal, it allows the bigger heart to really feel the hurt. I could not help insinuating that |terrible squinting attracts someone funny| She says take a trip to Israel in a plaid flannel shirt. I don't want to know in advance a work in progress revolving around insincere words. The sweetest birdie, my (--ž-), vocal and smart uses a smile; a few little words and the Torah and I'm loved and adored or the agnostic equivalent. I waiver in a phone conversation, not even saying a word. The confines that fill in the cracks with sweet motherly love lost seem like your non-friend on paper. Sometimes I dangle you written in pieces. Please squeeze my plate with cute girls. FluMMoxed Ilana is in the hot seat again. A ten-foot pole of upset and your sister's mo(u)th waits. You feel at peace through removal or collapse and the illusion of predictable projectories is wiped out from all the tea(r)s.
You know how vulnerable the crisis of sleep is possible. I sit and need a good nap. Suddenly, it's too early to peel back but taking care of business is a good thing. My questions, previously end up dehydrated, tired and yucky. I'm incredibly human but if you're willing, the paradox of plasticity might be something to talk about. Your theories as the void are based on a handful of little anecdotes. Pool. Closet. Incision. Infection. Insanity. I'm killing myself for the glue. Issues regarding voice at 10 rue Pavée interest this bee. Quietly, a girl wonders so, so needing crazy. Her need I'll share with you in submission. It turns out, I'm damaged. It wasn't any mistake. All I can understand, I accept but you know the confines of forgive. A flaneur to your flounder says planets control the circumstances though you feel clinical approaches are helpful. Yom Kippur every single second doesn't feel quite right but maybe it's just me. Footprints rarely have a normal place not similar to a list of gratitudes. To take hold of the various appendages, I consoled every shoe whore.
To be loved heart sewn shut, you are so thankful for all the sandwiches she never made you. A body viciously fights over the limits of mid-century architecture is a blessing. I dream about a birdcage and a new day at midnight but whatever should break l'oiseau doesn't make the apologies. There are moments like mornings, if you know nothing else. Imagine I adore you and then you'll see why I'm not telling you. A psychiatrist can be helpful as far as your work goes. But you say this is no coincidence from a psychological standpoint. My most qualified theories on the language are written in perfectly calibrated prison prose.