Sabrina Orah Mark

“Box Three, Spool Five”

I have a little accordion. I wrap it in brown paper. Tonight I take it out to the porch and miss you, one word at a time. Lustspiel, I slowly mouth into the dark blue night. Behind me I can hear me shuffling closer and closer: Be again. Be. Again. I try very hard to pray with all these hands against my back. I miss the keeper of this accordion. I miss the fairgrounds. But most of all I miss you playing in the five-cent booth. And I in my wire gown. And you in your wire gown. Tonight I unwrap the accordion and your white hair spills out. Tonight even you cannot take the place of you. I peel your birthmark from my cheek and toss it to the yard crows. For you to feel their beak marks would be everything. 

via The Babies (2004):

Prompt: Put yourself (or a character) in a room with a few items. They can be items in your home or items you wish you had. What happens when you open them? What happens when you break them? Keep this one as dream-like and as fragmented as possible. Once you have something you’re happy with, move the sentences around, jumbling the narrative and distorting the story.