The Basement Light

Last night, I left the basement light on.

The stairs creaked and my paper-thin pajamas

rustled as the sickly little bulb pulled me close.

Before I knew it there was a twist of the doorknob

that could not but must have been

by my own hand.

Snow stretched way,

way up so that there must have been nothing else in the world but cold,

and what little air stayed in my lungs then

must not have been enough.

I don’t know how long I ran,

or why either.

My fingers blacken now,

and numb,

and the dim basement light does next to nowt to warm them.

wph

VT

17 years old

Poetry

By wph

The History of the Entire World (or, The Ages)

From what I remember, it was born growing.
It was born hot, expanding, glowing,
and the people were made of gold
and of fire.

And it kept growing, it kept burning hot, bright,

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Poetry

By wph

Why I Was Late To Band Today

"So I was in English class, right," said the kid, "and the bell rang, and while I was switching classes, I got super thirsty, so I stopped at the water fountain, but then I remembered that this fountain is out of order and the only other one is in

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Fiction

By wph

Papyrus

I walled myself in with paper three days ago. I used my old fashioned-blow torch to melt the door of my office shut, and pressed my desk and my chair up against it.

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