Trying to get in the practice of writing more regularly. For now I’m going to make a habit of writing a freeform piece of work at least once a week to the sounds of a different album. These pieces will be short in nature, and won’t necessarily be “related” to the record in question, but that record will be exactly what was in my earlobes while I wrote the piece. This weeks record was “Psychic” by Darkside which provided the breeding ground for the following short flash fiction.
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She traces algebra equations in the condensation with her graceful fingertips. Long strings of signs and numbers and shapes and letters across the frosted-glass surface of the shower door.
He lifts his head from the nape of her neck; “what is it?”
Her shoulder blades rise and fall in synchronicity.
“Everything. It’s everything.”
Her hand falls in to his hand, his hand becomes her hand, and their hand returns to the glass; warm light pouring in from behind each new beautiful, perfect digit.
He inhales.
The earth revolves.
She exhales.
“What does it mean?”
She smiles.
“Nothing. It means nothing at all.”
And she wipes her palm across the formula, turns the hot water back on, and holds him closely as it washes over.
The Sound That Scissors Make 