Micah Park Biffle

   Darlene's Summer Heat   Ninety-five degrees and the humidity is sticking like spit. Darlene's fan is quickly spinning, but its motor gives out a spurt and ceases. A short grinding of gears as if a final scream before death. Darlene, held in the grasp of copious sweat rolls slightly over to the fan from her bed. She slaps the fan in hopes it will jolt it to life.  But there is no such luck. With her exhausted body from the relentless beating of the sun, she slowly sits up while uttering obscenities beneath her breath.  "Damn, fan...why in hell would you quick working now? You bastard, you pointless machine, now you're nothing more but a damn paper weight."   Sitting up in her bed, she slides her hands through her ruby hair and guides it to rest behind her head. With her hair behind her, she looks around her room as the sun blazes through the thin white curtains. "Why did I not buy darker curtains, this place is hell during the summer?"   ...

   An Artist's Touch    How lovely she be, her hair curling beneath her blossoming hat. The gentle kempt design of each strain. The dark glow against the morning sun as her dark hair rests upon her shoulders. Dangling like threads of silk. Divine I say, absolutely divine.   Her eyes, their complexion spill with the delicacy of the soul. Spilling like colors of the morning sun against a glistening sea. I can feel her presence even when we are distant in stare. Their vibrant collection of life, how much she has lived in such little space, such short time.   My brush, carefully stroking against the canvass with passion. Allowing her existence to become the reality of this art. Her art, her, she is everything. How wild her curves play against the contrast of this world. Nature bares much, but there is no competition to be had.  For even nature shows she'd be foolish to rival such beauty. Her skin, smooth as the melting light from an evening mo...