Cavewoman squats in red mud. Far away a star had exploded. Waves from the nova nudge her neurons. The first artist paints her cave crimson.
The body artist pointed his tongue at his right leg. “That used to be my left arm.”
He grabbed the scissors and cut the books’ pages. Patching them together like a quilt, he smiled at his new creation: something borrowed.
The gun is real. As the stagehands move the body offstage, a clueless spectator gushes: “This play’s so realistic!” The sirens draw closer.
“She must have been pretty. Don’t you think?” He considered it while the developer stained his hands yellow. “Looks like it.”
He wrote poems and she said she’d look them over. In her closet, dust gathered like mountain snow on the paper.