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Legends is a 51 word titled short story about Life, Love and Loss written as prose.
Please count all hyphenated words as one word.

Legends was inspired by Brian Aldiss's 'Mini-Saga',
owes its beautiful name to Larry Kimmel,
and was gifted to ai li from muse on 16 August 2001.


Copyright ai li 2002



ai li's legends
Larry Kimmel's legends




ai li's legends






Butterfly in his church


Bluebells the following Spring. There is no marker, only birdsong and the sapling
she tenderly planted. He requested no service in the wild, his eyes on the big sky.
That Sunday afternoon, horizon lightning, soft thunder, the windows closed to 
beating lilacs. Listening to breath, she is cold in his arms.













1 + Bedroom = Night


The vet is on his way. Her old cat on the bed glad to be home again. Kidney failure was diagnosed, the last drip since removed. There are stars, the millennium only days away.
Time is loud as they share what's left of sixteen years. The shell night light is blinding.










Larry Kimmel's Legends






At Moonlit Window in Negligee


Secretly, through slit eyes, I watch. Once in the Strasbourg cathedral she drew
me into a niche and put my hand where she needed me. Since then all that was
romantic in me has fallen away. Cliff into ocean. Put your ear to the conch shell
on my used to be.













And in those days, when living as if there were no tomorrow, I woke not to a new day,
but rather to the rewinding of a watch. On the wall of the room where I slept and
changed clothes hung a three week calendar that skipped to someday. Podunk
and Now.













Nude#27 & Musings


She has turned from a dormer window, clothed in a sheen of sweat, peach in hand.
This world of dust, indeed. If fruit grew on mountain cliffs, I'd turn recluse. You know
I would. But here in the fertile, I wipe my chin, endure her mocking eyes. Fear some
unspittable aftertaste.













Meadow Gospel


Where the grass is luxurious, she lies with an arm across her eyes, her
skirt to mid-thigh. What the mind can't spit, you live with as a kind of shrapnel
or you digest it. Food for a healing growth. Enabled by the cooperation of
opposing wings, a butterfly lilts about her.












Waking in a Strange Room


[In cool fragrance of stately pines, raven-haired, with eyes of Celtic sky, her
white robe pooling on the forest's russet floor . . . ]
- all that's left of last night's
dream-and all that's left of last night's glamour, a sequin dress lying limp across
a broken chair in the rosin light of morning.








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