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Pastimes : Calling all SI Poets -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: gypsy who wrote (1332)	2/25/1998 1:23:00 PM
From: gypsy	Respond to of 2095

The words rain down on her, huge hurting stones, striking tender heart-flesh, each blow, anesthetizing just a little bit more. Finally, the stones became less and less hurtful, bouncing off harmlessly into some black hell. Rising to her feet, she turns on the radio, a country station, Anita Cochrane and Steve Warner are singing, "If I Say" a cruel, death grimace smile twists her mouth, mockingly. Moving like some stiff wind up doll, she goes to the kitchen, watches the knife cut long, curly peels from the potatoes, exposing white flesh, then falls harmlessly to the counter. Hot, scalding tears pushed at the back of her eyes, bitter bile inches its way up her throat, swallowing hard, opens her eyes wide and put the chicken in the oven. Like some thing without sight, she gropes behind her, finds the chair, her hand with only a mild tremor, her legs suddenly weak, she sinks down, its straight back holds her upright. Stone-statue sat, until she hears footsteps on the porch, from a distance, he hears her gay voice say, " Hi Honey, did you have a good day"?