by Kymm Coveney
Because the only direction led under cover – deeper, darker, warmer – it never occurred to us that getting lost would be an issue. As a trickle of gentle rain dripped its lullaby onto the soft dirt, ghosts of leaves melted against the soil, which gave way, sucking in a tide of humus. Like clicks of shivering teeth, pebbles showered down around us. Hellfire and brimstone thundered past, announcing the arrival of the encroaching pile of earth come to fill itself back up.
We considered digging as an option, of course we did, but we dithered, stifled by a lack of direction.
Author bio: Born in Boston, Kymm Coveney has lived in Spain since the 1982 World Cup. Links to poetry, flash fiction and translations are at BetterLies, where she does her fiction practitioning.
@KymmInBarcelona
Misguided is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.
Showing posts with label Kymm Coveney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kymm Coveney. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 September 2015
Sunday, 1 March 2015
Entanglement
by Kymm Coveney
Amaryllis scratches the air with one buffed fingernail. “It pushes back,” she says to me. I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes. “Watch,” she instructs. Her peach-glossed nail picks as if at a scab in water and again scratches the air. It seems to bend, leaves an iridescent worm of Northern Lights in its wake. She pries at a glimmer of curvature. Like an eclipse it rolls over and she is gone, swallowed by a wave of emerald tinged in jade phosphorescence. I blink. As if coaxing a spell of déjà-vu, I whisper her name. “Amy?” I blink harder.
Author bio: A translator who practices fiction at BetterLies (http://betterlies.blogspot.com.es), Kymm Coveney spent 2014 writing poems with Jo Bell’s 52 poetry group, and has had one published recently in Synaesthesia Magazine’s THUNDER, LIGHTNING issue. She’s also been reading Martin Bojowald’s Once Before Time, learning about loop quantum cosmology.
@KymmInBarcelona
Entanglement is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
Amaryllis scratches the air with one buffed fingernail. “It pushes back,” she says to me. I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes. “Watch,” she instructs. Her peach-glossed nail picks as if at a scab in water and again scratches the air. It seems to bend, leaves an iridescent worm of Northern Lights in its wake. She pries at a glimmer of curvature. Like an eclipse it rolls over and she is gone, swallowed by a wave of emerald tinged in jade phosphorescence. I blink. As if coaxing a spell of déjà-vu, I whisper her name. “Amy?” I blink harder.
Author bio: A translator who practices fiction at BetterLies (http://betterlies.blogspot.com.es), Kymm Coveney spent 2014 writing poems with Jo Bell’s 52 poetry group, and has had one published recently in Synaesthesia Magazine’s THUNDER, LIGHTNING issue. She’s also been reading Martin Bojowald’s Once Before Time, learning about loop quantum cosmology.
@KymmInBarcelona
Entanglement is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
Redundancy
by Kymm Coveney
“No one else was working,” said the Virgin. She recrossed her legs, bobbling the row of day-glo-orange plastic chairs.
“No,” said the cleaning lady, slapping her mop under the Virgin’s seat, nearly wetting the holy heel. Crossing herself.
“And the nun,” she continued, but was interrupted by the mechanical voice calling Number Fifty-Two. Blinking red dots. The nun, who was cross-stitching two seats down from the Virgin, held her needle up to the light, trying to thread it. The Virgin wished she could ignore the message, I shall fear no evil, falling in canvas folds on Sister Mary Xavier’s lap.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Redundancy is part of 101 Fiction issue 6.
“No one else was working,” said the Virgin. She recrossed her legs, bobbling the row of day-glo-orange plastic chairs.
“No,” said the cleaning lady, slapping her mop under the Virgin’s seat, nearly wetting the holy heel. Crossing herself.
“And the nun,” she continued, but was interrupted by the mechanical voice calling Number Fifty-Two. Blinking red dots. The nun, who was cross-stitching two seats down from the Virgin, held her needle up to the light, trying to thread it. The Virgin wished she could ignore the message, I shall fear no evil, falling in canvas folds on Sister Mary Xavier’s lap.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Redundancy is part of 101 Fiction issue 6.
Monday, 1 September 2014
Soulmates
by Kymm Coveney
One teardrop rose from the August pond, became a fingertip of cloud. Intent on writing her heart across the morning, she persisted, despite having to cross out, erase, start over. She soon used up all the blue.
He felt the raindrops halfway through his run. Saw the cloud cover, a storm rolling in grey from the East. His breath was ragged, his lungs straining against the miles that remained.
Exhausted, her message undelivered, the tear plummeted back down to plop against his cheek. She rolled in a caress to the corner of his mouth, where he licked. Took her in.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Soulmates is part of 101 Fiction issue 5.
One teardrop rose from the August pond, became a fingertip of cloud. Intent on writing her heart across the morning, she persisted, despite having to cross out, erase, start over. She soon used up all the blue.
He felt the raindrops halfway through his run. Saw the cloud cover, a storm rolling in grey from the East. His breath was ragged, his lungs straining against the miles that remained.
Exhausted, her message undelivered, the tear plummeted back down to plop against his cheek. She rolled in a caress to the corner of his mouth, where he licked. Took her in.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Soulmates is part of 101 Fiction issue 5.
Saturday, 1 March 2014
Rapture
by Kymm Coveney
Dying had been like dreaming, except he woke to find himself in free fall. His sylph muscles clenched in panic then rewarded him with the sharp snap of wings spreading wide. Soft June breezes cradled him, nudged him forward.
He conjured her, understood he might reach her by sunbeam, but his balance was shaky and new. Arms windmilling against forewings, he bounced off a cloud. With her as his only thought, he soared finally, arriving on a trail of dust motes. Fairy whispers tickled her ear. She looked up to see his imprint – shoulder and left ribcage – against the sky.
Author bio: Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Dying had been like dreaming, except he woke to find himself in free fall. His sylph muscles clenched in panic then rewarded him with the sharp snap of wings spreading wide. Soft June breezes cradled him, nudged him forward.
He conjured her, understood he might reach her by sunbeam, but his balance was shaky and new. Arms windmilling against forewings, he bounced off a cloud. With her as his only thought, he soared finally, arriving on a trail of dust motes. Fairy whispers tickled her ear. She looked up to see his imprint – shoulder and left ribcage – against the sky.
Author bio: Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Rapture is part of 101 Fiction issue 3.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Triumph
by Kymm Coveney
Silence so deep each nuance of sound from the downshifted engine is muffled, snowbound. The boy straddles white sky under a dream of clouds and eternity, suspended in the chill air. The headlamp casts a pale yellow shadow on the road made pristine trail. Alone in the universe, the boy, the girl and the motorcycle travel in a slow, gentle glissade down the mountain, through a tunnel of dark evergreens. When they emerge, the world is light. As if a shroud has been drawn across the winter, they leave the drifts behind them. The boy accelerates into the opening land.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Silence so deep each nuance of sound from the downshifted engine is muffled, snowbound. The boy straddles white sky under a dream of clouds and eternity, suspended in the chill air. The headlamp casts a pale yellow shadow on the road made pristine trail. Alone in the universe, the boy, the girl and the motorcycle travel in a slow, gentle glissade down the mountain, through a tunnel of dark evergreens. When they emerge, the world is light. As if a shroud has been drawn across the winter, they leave the drifts behind them. The boy accelerates into the opening land.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Implosion
by Kymm Coveney
Her gall was the deep, almost purple spread of spilt wine as it leeched into the tablecloth's crisp, white fibres. She gathered her russet, seething fury into piles; raked in the fallen eidolon, tawny skeletal debris crackling upon release.
Sparks leapt from her long fingernails as they struck – rat-a-tat-tat – the marble upon which she meant to lie. The meagre flares from her ire would not do. She removed the shawl of tightly-woven violet threads, placed his smile next to the way he tied his shoelaces. She spoke his name; with the sigh that had ruffled his beard, fanned the flames.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Her gall was the deep, almost purple spread of spilt wine as it leeched into the tablecloth's crisp, white fibres. She gathered her russet, seething fury into piles; raked in the fallen eidolon, tawny skeletal debris crackling upon release.
Sparks leapt from her long fingernails as they struck – rat-a-tat-tat – the marble upon which she meant to lie. The meagre flares from her ire would not do. She removed the shawl of tightly-woven violet threads, placed his smile next to the way he tied his shoelaces. She spoke his name; with the sigh that had ruffled his beard, fanned the flames.
Author bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Friday, 3 August 2012
Recyclical
by Kymm Coveney
Posed on the left pant leg of your old jeans that I wear gardening at the weekends, you held your wings stiffly at attention, high above the dark fuzz of your Monarch body. I stood, hose in hand, watering the newly blooming cherry tree. Old echoes of a sigh, a whisper, any sound that might resemble your voice, made me close my eyes against the constant blue sky and purse my lips. I heard only the tunneling of worms deep in the ground as you traced your butterfly kiss across my eyelids, and then wrapped me up in your cocoon.
Author Bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
Posed on the left pant leg of your old jeans that I wear gardening at the weekends, you held your wings stiffly at attention, high above the dark fuzz of your Monarch body. I stood, hose in hand, watering the newly blooming cherry tree. Old echoes of a sigh, a whisper, any sound that might resemble your voice, made me close my eyes against the constant blue sky and purse my lips. I heard only the tunneling of worms deep in the ground as you traced your butterfly kiss across my eyelids, and then wrapped me up in your cocoon.
Author Bio: Ex-pat from Boston living in Barcelona, raising polyglot kids and fooling with written languages.
www.betterlies.blogspot.com
@KymmInBarcelona
http://kymminbarcelona.tumblr.com/
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