Chalk Talk
By Marcus Silcock
The detective scans the tree. Jacaranda sticks to her sandals. Yes, you guessed it. It’s that time. The time of flowers. The fiesta of flowers. Old timers are weaving them into great wreaths on the ground, outlined in chalk. A city of flowers. The ducks swirl the lake in perfect circles. The tree is not really a full tree. It is the stump of a tree. It is a dead tree, or maybe alive since the stump is still in the ground. The detective walks the edge of the abyss, between life and death. You are more likely to fall in love that way. The swinging rope bridge howls like a love whistle into the groaning canyon. Life is a donut with a soft gush in the middle.
About the Author
Marcus Silcock teaches high school in Barcelona and co-edits surreal-absurd for Mercurius magazine. His poetry has been translated into Slovak, Turkish, Polish and Danish. His book of microfictions and prose poems, Dream Dust, is available from Broken Sleep Books. Find out more at Never Mind the Beasts.
