UNSTEADY

I fudge mystique. Flotillas of near-misses I avoided by the league. It is a crime to understate your absolute trust. To be numbed by joy in that way, I would give my entire nose. Whittle me perfect so I can bronze the thing. Where are you in my delusions? With any luck, I narrate you into diver cobbler or blacksmith, a village treasure. Behold—offstage, the forest crone spinning blind for no one.

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LAKE TAHOE

Lake Tahoe exists only for romantic trips in movies but you keep mentioning it. The extant mock letters we write, as if a public knew how to live a conscious life before we did. If you’re from Lake Tahoe, somebody made you up and I’m telling. Yammering a sheaf more than I’d like—but the bees which miracle across the lake in the tale, I see on the lake in the real times. Nobody made that up to make me happy.

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Samantha Bares lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Her work has appeared in Cricket Online Review. She doesn’t believe in Lake Tahoe.