VerseLogic

If you read this, (even if we don’t speak often) please post a comment with a completely made up and fictional memory of you and me. It can be anything you want – good or bad – but it has to be fake. When you’re finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people don’t actually remember about you.

For _Quinn

It was late fall, somewhere north, was it the old USSR? I’m not even sure anymore; not that imperial borders mattered much anyway. Not before, for a small one such as I carried no papers, and noone would have checked them anwyay. Not after, because the borders disappeared under so much whiteout.

In those days I sat, slept, ate, and skurried about in fear. I think we all did; tomorrows were as uncertain as one could get.

So when they radioed that we should hide under our desks, I who had no desk hid under yours. I was somewhat shocked that both he and you fit, doubly so that your suit bore no wrinkle.

Turns out they built those desks strong enough to take it.

The radio said to seal the doorways, to stay in one or two rooms. They’d lectured such pointless drivel unceasently. I didn’t much care for the warning, but you fed me, and food does much to turn a little stomach’s mind. I had resolved to stick around a bit, for the kitchen was well stocked. You didn’t seem to mind, nor did your hairy friend.

I listened each night with the wolf, curled up on the rug, as you sat by our dying fire, squrawling and muttering about thousands of little post-its. Sometimes you would read, or sing, to us, and in those moments I caught a glimpse of your memory.

I kept some of those post-its; though the scrawl is faded, it’s how I remember you. And her.

For Tanetris

Each winter the memory haunts me. This time of year is the worst.

Shivering, we huddled close to the failing fire. If you could really call it a fire; it was coughing on rough drafts and broken promises by this point. I don’t care how warm they think we are, with all this fur. It wasn’t doing a lick of good against the biting wind, whipping through the rickety old house as if it owned the place.

Your body was warm beside me, though. Even if the pantry was long picked bare.

It had been three days since I’d last seen the suit man. He said he’d gone looking for food, you remember?. I still try to remain optimistic, though, imagining that he made it somewhere warm, a protected valley maybe, with trees. And her. I thought someday we could go; nice happy thoughts to ward off the chill.

I doubt we would have lasted much longer if you hadn’t found food. In retrospect, though, I suppose I should have been more conflicted about eating some of that kill you brought in.