I came down off the stage to greet him, introducing myself and shaking his hand. He looked at me, and giving a quick, subtle shake of his head, said, "You don't look at all like I expected."
Christopher Locke, who was born in Laconia, NH in 1968, is a poet, essayist, screenwriter and playwright. He is the author of the poetry collection End of Magic (Salmon Poetry, 2011). He has also published three chapbooks of poetry, Possessed (Main Street Rag, Editor's Choice Award -- 2005), Slipping Under Diamond Light (Clamp Down Press -- 2002), and How To Burn (Adastra Press - 1995).
Today a man drove by when I was on my bike near the bus stop on Elmridge Drive and shouted ‘Hey Paki! Go back where you came from!’ I yelled ‘stupid’ as loud as I could.
“One, two, three, four, five.” She counted the ribs leading from her collarbone to her sternum with her index finger. “Five ribs above the line. You always want five, if possible six.” She dropped her cigarette in the toilet and startled Lilly by unbuttoning her shirt. She counted Lillie’s ribs too. “One, two, three.”
The town pleaded with the Lord, but the sand began to take their towers. One story at a time, the towers sank into the ground. No one knew why.