The strange breeze came in from the rocks and brought smells of other worlds into her home. She would drink them in and watch as her feet carried her closer to the edge of her garden every day.
The flowers she’d neglect to water would occasionally fly off into the salty air by themselves. If she was watching from the kitchen window at the right time, she would sometimes see it happen.
So it was, that on the day before her children were to visit, she stood there, at the edge of her garden with her eyes closed, until she couldn’t take it anymore and she dropped into the sea. The currents pulled her under quickly. There was no sound.
I don’t know if this is a poem or a short story.
It’s supposed to be an anti-poem, I guess. Don’t you dare read it like a poem. Read it like prose, matter-of-factly, and with a stern male voice. No speeding up or slowing down for effect.
The idea is that I’m trying to be efficient with words, so much so that most of the story remains untold – but you should be able to imagine it yourself. Does that make sense? In point of fact, does the writing itself make any sense? Maybe give me your interpretations, and I’ll let you know whether I have failed.
I’d love to hear feedback on this, as I’m suspicious that I only think it’s good because I’m desperately tired.