sempiternal

Sarah crept slowly up the old staircase, hands gripping the peeling banister as she reached the alcove. It was the only place that hadn't changed. The same books lined the dingy yellow wallpapered shelves that ran into a bright pink table and chair.

A moment passed before she took in a breath. She could still smell the familiar hint of pine cleaner through the musty air.

Stumbling over the chair, Sarah grabbed the banister to balance her weight as she shifted to sit. "Crap," she thought looking at the splinters in her fingers. Pressing her thumbnail to the soft flesh, Sarah pushed until she couldn't feel her fingertip. The ground floor was peaking from the corner of her eyes. How far away it looked from here.

decry

We met when I was fifteen, Frank was ten and unknowingly involved. Frank had dropped his ice cream and was complaining, and I was fumbling through my backpack for some change when Johnny came up and offered to pay for another cone. I agreed and then he picked me up the next day to take me to the movies.

The first time we kissed was three weeks later. We just finished dinner at Ruby's and my breath smelled like garlic. He laughed before he leaned in to my hair. I could see the strands quiver under his breath. It was soft, gentle and I don't remember anything but it tasting sweet.

The day he lowered himself on one knee I said, "Absolutely Johnny dear," in a heart beat. The ring was small but he had worked all summer for this falling-leaf proposal. I remember the crisp crackle underneath our shoes and our backs. The leaves were so soft and sweet.

We got married on the beach because it felt more open-minded. Our parents objected the whole time, up to the actual ceremony when the pastor pronounced us man and wife. For that moment, they paused, split-second respect, until the reception where they again shared their grievances.

It's typical when you marry young to expect failure. It's typical to be reminded you'll meet failure. Repeatedly, so we don't believe. When Johnny and I used to go to the beach, we run our fingers through the muddy sand. Sometimes I wonder, when the marks we'd drawn washed away, if they thought this is how we'd end. But Johnny always knew, it's always forever. Even if we aren't physically here anymore. Soul mates are forever.

untoward

The climb had been more than well-planned, and we were thankful for the good weather and the lack of untoward circumstances. Probably due to the fact we barely spoke under our harried breath. As we summited, we saw further into rows and rows of white-green ripples. Such contrast to the dirty, muddy snow beneath our wet boots that eradicated our faults. Jim turned to me and nodded politely, "Well, I suppose you're right."

annus mirabilis

She leaned forward, slightly drunk, waving her glass towards me, offering a sip of the sparkling concoction. She rose partially out of her chair, refusing to be bound by her cloth napkin as it plummeted to the floor.

She raised her glass in toast, "Annus mirabilis," she said, with a soft curl in her lips. She nodded towards me so I could see only the light hitting her forehead and glazed eyes. A few strands of dark hair fell across to conceal resentment.

The dipping of her head was followed with a polite curtsy, then a return to a poised body, she stood fully. A column of chiffon, layers upon layers of age, and the same pristine face. She understood the composure of cosmetics and grace.

When the ceremony ended, I stole away to silently follow her lavendar scent.

newspeak

simple, so we cannot say otherwise

exacerbate

It's so easy to provoke her. One little comment, one off-beaten touch. Keep her off my path. We decided it'd be better. I don't know how to tell her, how humor shields my hurt. When she laughs, with those eyes. When she frowns, with those eyes. And I spend every waking moment with that smile because I must spend sleeping nights alone.

parietal

Speak when you're spoken to, and when you're not. You have to decide where the balance is and how much you flaunt your intellect. We pick and choose our partners like we pick and choose are classes where we picked and chose our professors. To impress. I twiddle my thumbs and run fingers through my hair, idly watching the older generation (only by a year or so) draw their circles pass me. To separate. This is wrong, I feel thin-sliced incorrectly. I am not a fool, just uncertain with my head in New York City clouds. Sorry, haven't returned yet. Ring tomorrow.

Why do I find this all so revolting?

I thought I would understand by now what so inherently interested me in this field, but why is something that grabs me in a field I decided to bypass. Irony is never easy. Irony is not for the weak. I almost forgot, I have a job to do.

I want to learn, I tell myself, so ignore pretensions and embarrassment. Ignore.

feign

I watched her pull the shiny, layered silk dress over the lumps of her body. Despite her slightly full frame, it was too loose, but I waited for her to prompt me before I gave my opinion. The wrinkles were already creasing the silk as she pushed out her right hip, and the fabric sashayed with her sudden movement.

"See how the fabric drapes over my curves? It's gorgeous," she said. I looked at her and smiled, nodding my head in agreement. Kept nodding as she twirled, sat, got up and twirled again.

"I just love the detailing," she exclaimed, pointing to the royal-colored gemstones across her neck. Purple, green and blue, vivid, very vivid. I saw myself looking at myself through their vividness. I wondered what I should say.

"It's a nice dress. It's very well-made, but I think it's too big for you," I said hesitantly. She wrinkled her nose at my comment about it's size, but nodded.

"Yes, yes, I know. But it's incredible. It's such a wonderful piece, and I could take it in," she replied, pulling the silk back around her hips, desperate to keep her treasured discovery.

I understood her appreciation. She lifted the dress over her head and replaced it on its hanger. I noticed her contemplating, about what characteristics exactly I'm not sure, the likelihood of wearing the dress.

I bought the dress for her, knowing to me she looked beautiful with or without it. But if it made her feel beautiful, how could I deny her such a small satisfaction.

ersatz

Too tall. Too small. Too big. Too punctual. Too haughty. Too serious. Too immature. Too crazy. Too close-minded. Too open-minded. Too athletic. Too sexy. Too expensive. Too frugal. Too someone else. Not you.

circumspect

She is cautious with herself, her manner and the way she places her hand next to his arm. Softly, carefully, until the weight transfers to the shallow blue next to him. She waits, and he doesn't flinch. Her body shifts as she slides out of bed, a choice she makes as she creeps out the door.

volant

Summer here was always sticky sweet. Like morning dew on flowers, we sat on the rotting wood porch sipping tea. Us sitting here reminded me of a sickly, small town cinema shot. I had just come back yesterday, flying in through Dayton before I rented a car and drove down to Madison. It was different being here, away from the glimmer of streetlights and advertisements, but I needed to be here. I heard the wicker chair creak as Tara turned to ask me, “You think he’d like the stars tonight?”

The first time I remember him flying, we were both twelve. His dad, or what we call a pathetic excuse for a man, left his mother earlier that year for a younger woman in a county over. He knew Tim’s mom was pregnant, but what did he care. A couple months later, Tim’s mom lost the baby. Course this was after months of complete disregard for Tim. He could have not existed for all she cared. So when Tim jumped off the roof of the schoolhouse, we knew he was angry. Not so much that he wanted to kill himself, but so he could feel something other than his hate. I couldn’t blame him, it was under the most unfortunate circumstances.

Tara propped her feet up on the porch fence. I watched the splintering paint crumpled under the weight of her heel as she reclined. “I think he would. He’d be right here telling us how he’d rope us the moon.”

“Yeah, he always dreamt in stars didn’t he?” I admired how Tara could keep her composure. She had after all taken care of Tim after his mom went crazy. She was just too good of a person to let him waste away.

Tara was a wonderful family friend of my parents. She never married, but then again, she never wanted to. I remember when I had just entered high school and she took me out shopping to buy some new dresses. It took some convincing, but my parents agreed. She used to baby-sit me in middle school, so she had a way with them. My parents are actually very supportive. They decided to leave Madison after I left for college. They wanted to be closer to me and knew that I would eventually find some big city, so we had no reason to come here anymore. But here I was, sitting on Tara’s porch, reminiscing because we had nothing better to do.

When Tim was 17, he decided, since he was going to be his own man pretty soon now, he’d be an astronaut. Actually, he had decided that a long time ago, but now he was going to learn to fly a plane. He already registered and was driving to Dayton taking lessons. It had cost him six months worth of wages, but it was worth it. He told me when you were in space, it felt like being in the lake, floating. I laughed at him saying, I’d rather be in the lake because at least I knew I could come back home quickly.

I never thought Tim was crazy, just strangely ambitious. We all have dreams. I still thought that the second time he tried to fly off a roof. He had these ridiculous wings made of wire hangers and plastic tarp. We all thought he was messing around, but when he looked at the sky and the sun haloed his head, I just knew. That boy is going to fly.

Sometimes, when I'm alone in the city, I look at the rooftops of old cathedrals and giant skyscrapers, and imagine what it would be like to be that high. What would the wind feel like up there? Stronger, breezier? What would the world look like at my feet? Insignificant? What would Tim think of these faded gray, brick church with Gothic angels on pedestals.

I remember that last night in Madison, I was leaving for college. The summer air was sticky sweet like tonight. Tim had finished his pilot lessons by now. I remember him promising me that he’d take me out on a flight when I came back from school. By then his arm would be healed. Tim wasn’t going anywhere because his grades were pitiful, and what little I could help him with, he managed only to get a C. I told him that he could take classes at the community college, but he told me not in living hell. Apparently, astronauts don’t learn to fly in college.

We spent that last night sitting on Tara’s porch. He told me that one day, when he made something of himself, he’d come find me, in his own private jet, and propose with the biggest diamond he can find. I told him, we’ll see.

Tomorrow will be the last day I see Tim. I'm told that they made him up well enough that you can't tell he has any broken bones. This last time he jumped, I'd like to think he knew what he was doing, even if gravity decided otherwise. But as he is lowered into his earthy grave, I know six feet can’t keep him from the sky.

I wish I had come back to Madison, to Tim. Then I would tell him there's so much more out there than hiding behind clouds. That it's okay to cry, to fear, to be angry. I just let it pass because I it was easier being distant.

Tara smiles and whispers, "Aww, honey, he knows. You were good for him. He knows." I muster up half a smile and lean into her shoulder. At least I know now in heaven, he will truly be flying.

...

I know I haven't been too good here, even though I have been reading my daily dictionary words. It's just been a tough adjusting to a crappy roommate (to be fair, it's applicable to me too), finding time after work and getting my creative soul (or lack there of) to come out behind this confusion.

But I have decided, I'm going to do thoughts for a word on a weekly basis instead. This way I'll be able to keep up, have more words to choose from and stimulate my brain, and then I can really develop the "stories".

Cassandra

Those who love the smell of flowers


When we were younger you thought I was perfect. You thought it the first time when you decided your afternoon was worth wasting just to wait for me. Outside of an old building, you sat in hopes to see me again. This was when we'd innocently approach each smile because we were just learning about love. You, how love feels when someone loved only you. Me, how love feels even with a second-rate heart. We walked to your car and all I could see was rich purple irises and emotion, nevermind the supermarket bar code. You didn't tell me then, but I knew. I could tell it in your eyes.

That was when we fell in love. When nothing else mattered because we couldn't understand otherwise.

You told me I was perfect while laying in bed contemplating my questions, secretly contemplating your future. I could feel the sheets smooth my skin as I rubbed them between my toes. Layer upon layer soothing me into sleep. You laughed at my childhood habit because you loved my quirks. You said I was perfect, gangly tall, puffy belly, button nose and all. You said that you didn't think you were good enough. I would smile and tell you you're perfect. And we agreed.

You surprised me with irises on my favorite holiday--the one that singles despise. I took photographs to remember the smell of the flowers.

Later, when you took me out, because I have fancy dreams of dresses, you showed me I was perfect, even though it was all my idea. You let me know how beautiful I always was, and how wonderful things were over dinner, even in dress shoes and ironed shirts. We pretended to be Four Seasons rich. This was when you would drive 180 miles to see me. I was worth the hours alone. My excitement was enough for the both of us.

When I traveled two lifetimes to see you in the city of youth, you reminded me that I was still perfect. You didn't tell me as I ran to you from the plane, as we waited out the taxi ride, as we opened the door. Despite my objections and disposition, you took work time and surprised me with more flowers.

There were numerous moments when you told me again how perfect I was, how lucky you were. I must have believed you because I started thinking ahead. You started taking care of things for me. The last time you bought me flowers, they arrived all ruined (perhaps an omen), and you helped me have them replaced. I knew you wanted them perfect but only because I expected it.

We will never know the moment where my imperfections broke your rose-colored glasses. Maybe it was when you stopped kissing me goodbye, or maybe it was when I ran away downstairs with the cooking spices, or maybe it was even when you said you'd buy me a necklace on your trip but you didn't. I could only hide for so long in your pink shade. I could only hide for so long how uncertain I was, without your affirmation. I wanted to be everything you thought I was, but I couldn't. I was unhappy with myself, but you could never help me. I covered myself in smiles. You still can't understand.

This time I bought my own flowers, like the first time when you and I became us, supermarket irises, beautiful in their own right. I didn't expect you to do these kind of things anymore. I didn't want to ask either. I had forgotten what flowers from you, from your heart, smelled like. I bought them to liven up the apartment for our impending graduation. These were the only flowers I received.

You were never supposed to disappear, but we started fading into the walls. And I became alone again, unwilling to share that hurt. Maybe I should have not yelled from a friend's house. Maybe I should not have cried in the bowling alley. Maybe I should have waited to really know. Maybe I should have decided before. But I wanted to pretend just for a little longer, that I could still be perfect.

bevy

oily marks appear on walls where pleasure moments hung before the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this still life


"Look at you, you're beaming," she said when I saw her since the semester ended. This was when I still dreamed in movies and pleasure moments. I'd imagine my arrival greeted with a bevy of flowers and 2 1/2 week-old touch. Meticulous plans to blend our transition into fluid. I kept pretending.

Her smile was so comforting, when ignorance was easy. She congratulated me asking, "When are you leaving?"

If she saw me now, just a few days later, she'd wonder what happened to that girl. Where did I lose my smile? Through the empty mob I pushed through to the walkway and hailed a cab. She would never know the four bags worth of weight. She would never see the power of being crushed.

syllepsis

We decided to have a picnic with tea, jam and unresolved resentment. Excuses were common enough, like the ants crawling nearby the quilted blanket. He curled his middle fingers in anticipation to flick an unsuspecting guest, but there were too many. As he rid of one ant, another hopeful successor would arrive.

We should have moved but we couldn't. We were stuck in this in between, the other unwilling to give.

concomitant

My mother-in-law was folding the baby blankets by pushing the air out of the soft fleece and stuffing them into the box for Goodwill. I watched her carefully tuck away little socks she had knitted, little socks she wished she could darn. My wife remained calm and maintained perfect composure as she sipped a glass of wine, something she had sworn off over a month ago. This was the subsequent mourning of loss.

I wanted to yell and break this stupid silence. Throw clothes everywhere and shake my wife. Cry woman, cry damnit.

I remember when the blood ran out, after my wife had fallen to the floor in pain. Her hands were clutching her stomach. I held her head in my hands, stroking her hair as we waited for the ambulance to come. I remember how wet my hands were with her tears. So much pain. Too much pain.

She's looks wearily at me through the glass. It's okay, I promise. Just cry.

ne plus ultra

They wouldn't understand it, this masterpiece he created. Overpoweringly perfect, so much so that no critic would see what it represented. He crushed the clay with his right hand. They wouldn't understand.

myriad

I remember those summer days where we believed we had reasons to stay. Ten thousand dreams of leapfrogging rocks in the bayou; lounging pastries morning, noon and night; and naked hearts sharing beds. Amateur dreams you said they would say, but no matter, you said. We needn't listen. I couldn't tell you then that I believed them because I loved you more.

When I finally returned to visit, you congratulated my journey, shook its hand and patted it on the back. Idle polite chatter, you remarked, how wonderful. You had stayed, completed and worked, never leaving 1985. I stared at the human photograph wondering what happened to that little girl. The one I should have believed and all ten thousand dreams because you loved me more.

deportment

She smiled behind her polite deportment, listening.
But she kept silent, waiting for someone to listen to her.

halcyon

His run was cut short from the intermittent pouring rain. There he was, completely rain-soaked, squinting his eyes to keep the water from blurring his vision. Suprisingly, it was all so calmingly peaceful.

When the rain passed, he found himself inside his room. Door closed contemplating what it meant to be alive.

foray

When I wake up, all I want is to see your eyes telling me, “This is what you need.”

well two spinning spheres,
two spinning spheres in a bed of stars
silence is super
staring into space, I wonder where you are
you're all that I've ever needed
I know that you won't feel it

I'll be your respirator
I'll be your pressure suit
It's alright, It's alright
I'll be your four leaf clover
I'll be your pressure suit
I'll be your angel wings
I'll be your parachute
I'll be your running reason
I'll be your only reason
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop loving you

leitmotif

She recognized the chords from the orchestra pit. It had that strong beat, the "sound of fate knocking on the door," as one critic had put it. An aged-man was conducting the Fifth Symphony. His scraggly gray hairs subtly concealed a growing bald patch on the back of his head. He was losing his hair, but his wisdom carried. He would never lose his gift of music.

In such a fast-paced city, she found reassurance in the empty music hall. She'd often come and watch the orchestra practice during her lunch hour, while nibbling on a sandwich. Here among the empty chairs, invisible clappers to her left and right, she closed her eyes. Ever so often the conductor would turn to her, smile and wave her onstage. And for a few moments of her hectic life, she gave in to passion.

talisman

She fingered the heavy amulet on her chest. The tarnished chain endured her heavy heart. He had given it to her as a token of good luck before he rode away. Waiting years for him to return, she pretended that around her neck rested power. She could make garden greens flourish and water flow. She imagined it a beacon, where he could signal the moon and send her secret kisses. She saw beauty in the deep pool of blue and truly believed that with it, no harm would ever come between them.

When he never came back, she died. She lifted the amulet from her neck and placed it on the grave. It was just a necklace. She was the one that had given it meaning.

aspersion

We pretend we're ten again, running in swimsuits across a neighbor's yard. Unfortunately for Mr. Zuckerman, his fan sprinkler is waving back and forth beckoning us for a shower. She's laughing, like we used to when we didn't understand anger happens, things fall apart. Her feet leave half-baked impressions in Zuckerman's spring grass as she zigzags around the yellow contraption. The scene looks absurd, two barely clothed adults yelping to avoid the water. Except we all know we want to get wet.

It's almost holy, watching the water casually drop on her forehead, down her neck.

lucid

It was one of those moments you watch in the theater, where they guy and girl are standing at the same location where they first profuse their love for each other. There's a hug and a kiss, and the sparkling eyes full of tears. The movie fades to black and the credits roll back to reality where he finds himself standing opposite a girl that for five years has disappeared out of his life. Why? Because he said so.

She's looking at him with inquisitive eyes, and it seems that they're about to recreate the classic scene he's seen a million times in the movies. Everything is extremely lucid, even the sky is empty blue. He tries to tell her this time, tell her differently that he was wrong. He didn't mean for all this time to pass, to forget what she smelled like, to forget the way her forehead wrinkled when she is upset. But she just shakes her head, silence blowing by, and he closes the gap between his lips. Because she said so.

meritorious

This is my word, because today is my day.

caduceus

The insignia spoke for itself. The tight coil of snakes somehow gave birth to great wings. He was a snake, he was a liar, and most importantly a thief. His silence spoke for itself, like the insignia. Great wings resting on falsity.

predication

My eyes follow the sun strokes along the canvas of water. The sun has a knack for capturing shimmer. It's painted the water in easter egg colors as it did the tiny rowboat that skips along. I'm watching from the shore, back slouched, knees huddled in my ripped shorts. I need to stop picking at the thread, as I ball up little mounds of thread into the sand.

He's out there entertaining a family guest. If it wasn't a family guest, it would be some other guest. Sometimes they're so exclusive I never make it to the path towards the shore to join them. She's beautiful and inappropriately dressed in a confection of lace and ribbons. There's a small, pink stain where I spilled wine on it a long time ago, when he surprisingly embraced me in a kiss. Her naivety believes looking like me is all it takes.

They turn on cue to wave at me, as if I'll give my approval with a single wave back. But I'm not looking at them. Instead my gaze has focused on the dark where the sun has never finished painting. Yet, there is some spectrum of blue. He's yelling my name, repeatedly, desperately, yelling my name. I grace them with my attention. She's wet from an unexpected wave. I laugh.

When they return to the ground that covers my feet, I pull the rope towards the shore and take his hand. He hops out, takes her hand and sends her up the path home. We tie up the boat as she slowly turns back to watch us as I watched them. There are connections we never deny, and taking the ropes away from my hands he silently asks me to join him.

The last time I sat on that rowboat was over a year ago. I'd forgotten what the tiny ripples of water feel like. I'd forgotten what it's like to be painted by the sun.

slipshod

She keeps falling off the balance beam that we tell her to stay on. We're looking at her like she doesn't know what she's doing, so unprepared. We dispense advice so easily as if she'll fall off again, losing faith.

requisite

I wish I could explain to you what really matters, but then you would see how small my world is and that I need to grow. How certain occurrences affect me, how my emotions always get the better of me, but it's something that I will never understand. I am what I am.

We believe this isn't what we need right now. This is something we'll figure out.

I wish I could show you are necessary, one of those critical "cogs" that turns to make the whole machine work. Despite our carelessness and idle chatter as we sigh happily about our futures outside of here, or fret about nonexistent ones. You look at us with such expectations and high hope, trying to live vicariously through our youth. Because then you think when you understand us, we will understand you. You think you fail.

I hope you know you didn't. You never have.

baroque

The pirate is advancing towards us. I can smell his yeasty stench from booze and bacteria. Days lacking water and soap, the usual recipe of the sea. You'd imagine opulent robes draping his arms, heavy rings with heavy gems, and ornate detailing of his feathered cap, all of which he stole from his enemies. We are all his enemies. He approaches, and we are unable to turn.

His eye patch hides half of his feelings, as he asks, "Hey, do you have, like uh, uh a dollar, cause I totally took this can of soup, and I can't pay for it." I just stare. He's pleading. On his person you can only see a worn-out jacket, no shirt, and stained pants, all unwashed. A pirate with nothing to his name. Abandoned.

The soup can already has been pried open and the soup dripping down the steely side. We're unable to help as he dashes away towards to the grocery store exit. Store employees surround us as if we know where the pirate is going, asking us what he wanted. He ran towards the doors. Freedom, open waters!

cockalorum

we're only taking turns holding this world
it's how it's always been
when you're older you will understand

Every word out of his mouth was boastful. How he overcame numerous inexplicable complications. How grand he seemed to be his guest mused.

"But what about...," I lingered in my thought before collecting myself. He stared at me, eyes narrowed, but not with anger but fear. I didn't understand it at first, until I realized he knew how much of his weaknesses I understood. I hesitated at my power, words able to break any pillars he erected in his name. Those 30 seconds dueled between our unblinking eyes, waiting for the other to move.

I shook my head and allowed him to continue without finishing my thought. He shifted his weight back towards his guests, numbing his speech a little for me.

fraught

There was a frantic tone in her voice that I recognized, the same tone that she used every time she would be gone for days on end, leaving me here with a few dollars and Mr. Bunny, my ragged stuffed animal, as my only provider. She'd return disheveled and reeking of alcohol. Then her voice had a different tension. The one where it was my fault so and so left her. For years I lived like this because I knew no better.

It's okay I thought. This time, before she comes back, I'll burn this hellhole down. And I'll be gone.

Baconian

He was a learned man, a scholar of Shakespeare. Often he would recite several of his favorite soliloquies from Hamlet with unwavering passion. The inflections of his voice proved his thin-line balance with madness. And who could forget in high school where he first heard the infamous lines, "To be, or not to be: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?" He knew then how to grapple with the irrational reasoning of his own existence. He was doing it now, watching his mind quarrel between a living fool and a sleeping coward. The gentle rocking motions of sleep always called him in, perchance to dream.

allege

The allegations pile on. You've already sold yourself short, she says. Look at yourself now, what have you accomplished. You spend your petty days daydreaming about success and fame. Where have you gone? Nowhere. Are you even happy? She's staring at me with slanted eyes, glaring as if she's seen my future.

The mirror talks back with an unfriendly sneer. I should stop looking.

lavation

I only feel gravity and I wonder why.

My palms are numb from the consistent pounding of water on my hands. I hold them there underneath the showerhead, unmoving and relentlessly firm. My body, statuesque, has not moved for the last ten minutes, eyes closed under the warm pressure. But my mind is in constant motion, reviewing every little decision that you've made. We believe people change for each other, only to discover we only change for ourselves. I can feel your eyes upon my naked skin, but are you really there? I refuse to look because I already know the answer. Your hands touch my eyes, wiping away drops, tears or water you can't tell, but it comforts you to perform the act. The water understands the power of distortion when I open my eyes and find nothing.

A personal fountain to the cleansing of the soul, or so I like to believe. One touch of water on my skin and black becomes white, dirt becomes gold, anger becomes love. If only, as I stand there still unmoving.

encroach

Life is for the living, he thought. The weight of the world was on his shoulders, as it always had been, as it always would be. This was not living, every day a constant struggle to see the next, yet it was always the same. What if he stopped, what would happen? He wondered, toyed with the idea. People would continue living, eating, sleeping, and breathing. The good helping the good and the bad, the bad only watching out for themselves. Government would still exist, so would faith, poverty, love and murder. He looked at his feet, covered in dirt, while his shoulders ached and begged him to rest. What difference does one person make he pondered.

He finally set it down. He placed the heavy weight over the world beneath his feet. And it stayed. Atlas ran before he saw what happened.


"If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater the effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders--what would you tell him to do?"

...

I don't have time for one words anymore :( from the word of the day. Maybe after graduation when school lets out I'll be more on the ball. For now, I will be writing random thoughts from random one words.

doughty

I am not a soldier.
I am a coward. I hide behind your vacant smile.

Before, in that summer, in the car, outside classroom doors, in a coffee shop, at a small restaurant, outside your house, we didn't see what love meant. We just took each drive, seat, sip, bite, moment as we could. I told you secrets then, as I told you last year. You told me your first secret late one night, like tonight, where I cried over a silly paper, which turned out to be very well-written. You knew me better than I knew myself, and you had just started to love me.

But now, everything is empty. You're not there. You're never there. You take each drive, seat, sip, bite, and moment on your own, in your work, or with somebody else. Sometimes I decide to come along just to comfort you. You don't though. Tonight I am writing alone. Pages and pages of incoherent relationships of the business kind, not of people. No one encouraging me to finish, nor anyone to comfort--I wouldn't allow it anyway. I don't write well anymore. Even if you still love me.

If I were a soldier, I would be brave. I would tell you things about myself. I would tell you all my secrets again. Change, we've become. You alone would find me behind my smile.

polyonymous

Angel
Angela
Angelica
Angelina
Angelina Ballerina would be fun

Just me. Just Angie.

beau geste

She waits, patiently as before, for a grand gesture. This time he would burst through the doors with a fragrant bouquet of flowers that were already trimmed, nurtured and arranged into an expensive vase. Or maybe he'd come in with tickets to the opera, front balcony, where if she tipped her head, she'd drink in the entire theatre. Or maybe Tiffany's blue would be her color, when her greedy eyes devour the platinum weight of a diamonds. Three-stone setting and some smaller stones across the band, why not. Or maybe, this time, he'd come in empty-handed. She wouldn't mind, because this time he'd leave his wife. He would rush in and stay with her, forever. But that, she'd wait forever for.

doxology

nothing like Kurt Vonnegut

rodoment

"Well, if you ask me, I think they're hideous. My dad bought me those over there in pink and silver, and they are much nicer," sneered Rachel. "Actually I'm going to wear them tonight, else I'd let you borrow them."

This is how things are Rachel believed. She had to make her authority known, that she was the best. Life was full of designer clothing and sleepovers with girls that wished they could be her. She hated it actually, okay maybe not hated, but it wasn't exactly what she wanted. It was all that she had after all. Maybe one of these times her parents would be there when she came home, open arms and smiling. A real smile. Life's luxuries must be better than a Marc Jacobs bag.

Rachel loved sleepovers though. She loved them because for once she saw, she experienced what a real family was like. She'd use her authority--or if she had to--promise designer bribes to get into her "friends" lives. Just so she could be in that happy place again.

vernal

The oscillations of the stringy jump rope around the children's quick double-dutch feet reminded her of spring and green leaves.

maquette

Everything is perfect in this family. She was beaming as the dad fried the battered shrimp he spent the day cleaning and marinating. The mom was mixing the potato salad together with relish, mayonnaise and chopped tomatoes. She had stewed the potatoes from early this morning before she beat them soft. The daughter, that was herself, washed the dishes and drank her tea. She was a part of this routine, a beautiful symbiosis of family.

But she is growing. She is learning to be on her own. As picturesque as her parents dancing to Frank Sinatra blasting from the kitchen radio as they cooked was, she would go. It was time. But someday she would have her own family and it would be just as perfect.

ad hoc

Note to self:

I'll put together this little ad hoc plan because you need one, but you must know life is for the living.

deference

My grandfather was a good man. He created my mom and she loved him. He was a sergeant fighting for his duty. He made sure that all his children had the best private education available. My mom was picked up every day on an army Jeep from school. She remembers the bumpy ride.

My grandfather smoke and drank too much. So much that I barely remember him alive. He was a vegetable for the rest. My mom cried when her father died. He was buried in a rich plot he had bought for him and my grandmother so they would always be together. She cried as well. We paid our respects, varying degrees of deference, to him with our backs turned as he was lowered. I remember the clean cut grass along the graves.

I rarely drink, except on fine occasions. I have no tolerance and don't plan to gain one. I never smoke because I condemn it. What others do is not my responsibility but I understand. For me, I tell myself I can prevent being bedridden to a nurse, who has to empty my bed pan every time I defecate. I think that this simple action of not participating will keep me alive, really alive so my grandchildren remember me. It may not, but I can't risk taking that chance.

sashay

My heart sashayed across the dance floor. I watched her move with the strange grace of slight drunkenness. The movements were deep and grandiose as her body swayed. It shifted weight to each beat. Left hip, right hip, left hip, right hip. Giddy steps with giddy friends. We would laugh about this tomorrow when no one would remember. I even started laughing now as I tried to move my stiff hips, only to stop when she turned away to face him.

Her shallow relationship of two months equated to a life long romance when he entered the room. My life long romance of her equated to a one-sided painful realization. I attempted to not exist again as I left the dance floor. Grabbing another glass, I toasted her happiness and drank.

numinous

I admit, I think God is slightly sad that I don't seek any kind of spiritual comfort. Must be why nothing seems to be going as planned. I need to believe I can.

I got here on my own accord and there isn't a mysterious being that did this work for me. I must have miscalculated on the way. Crap. I need to work harder.

God is punishing me because I strayed. I must pray more and follow what we've been taught in Church. He will guide me through this. Amen.

I need to believe I can.

cachinnate

sometimes silence is a habit that hurts
el konigsburg

My words fail to reach her, no matter how desperately I want her to hear. I'm so afraid of the cachinnation that I never tell her how I feel.

pungent

I could smell the sweet spices Mama used in the curry chicken. It was her specialty, a dish her own mother taught her. Her brother was visiting. I hadn't seen Uncle since I was three, so I vaguely remembered his thick beard and deep set eyes, like Mama's eyes.

Mama was rolling the pink breasts in the flour and stewing it in the curry. She was humming old love songs as she cooked. I stood next to her by the stove. I didn't realize how the wrinkles behind her eyes creased heavier. Age had also covered her skin on her once-smooth hands. I wondered if Uncle would remember Mama as his younger sister, or would the wrinkles hide her youthful smile.

It was hard to smile now though. When Papa died the house turned still. Uncle was coming to make sure Mama was okay. I didn't understand how he could make things better. I watched the curry slowly rising, reaching the brim. I could let it boil over I thought. Instead I lifted the lid to let the cool air smother the sauce. Sometimes I wish I wouldn't have to do anything, that life would fix itself.

jog trot

Every day feels like a dirty routine as she rounds the corner to chase the nightlife. There's always sweet small talk and a shot of something strong before he--whoever he is tonight--decides they should split. The club plays sexy hip-hip beats that drowns her fake smile, which he never sees because his eyes are focused on her chest. She always follows.

She can't understand why she doesn't feel anything. Each night, as she shares herself, she still doesn't feel anything. Why doesn't she feel a damn thing? This dirty habit she won't quit because she needs love and all she receives is a one-night security.

sinecure

Julia stared out the window of the 42nd-story skyscraper. The view was beautiful of the harbor, but she was bored. Every day it was the same brain-dead excel spreadsheet, save maybe one or two presentations. Business was slow, so her job was slow. Granted it was always slow. She didn't exactly hate her job, in fact sometimes she actually happily excelled at it. Plus it paid well and let her live somewhat comfortably despite the city's pretentious nature. She enjoyed her lifestyle though. She just hated being so damn bored. Every time she found herself staring out the window she wondered how life would be if she were poor.

ludic

He creates these fantasies where the boundaries of real and imaginary blend into his four-walled bedroom. Child's play for a grown man, whoever said that it was wrong didn't understand carelessness, or was it carefreeness? He couldn't remember. In fact, he couldn't remember where he was--or is going. The ground was a spinning top, so he looked at the sky. Ladies dripping in white diamonds sent him alluring gestures. He wondered where his pants went as he chased after the women. Who cares, he thought, this is awesome. All he knew was he needed to scrape up more money to buy another happy pill.

apparatchik

We blindly follow flashy smiles and expensive suits thinking if we do this, we can't be denying our liberties, no matter what they actually do.

zibeline

I remember Mama's sweaters, soft and gentle when I lay my cheek against her chest. I could feel her soft hands stroking my baby hair as she sang me to sleep. You're my little baby, no one will take you away from me. You're my little baby, everyone is going to love you. Everything about her was so soft.

I smile as my eyes trace her body. She's so small, too early the doctors' said. So we wait, our only consolation the monotonous beat of the heart monitor. I sing to her as my Mama sang to me. When she is better I will let her enjoy the softness of my sweaters as she lies against my chest.

occident

It's an annual pilgrimage of sorts. He makes the trip west to a new destination to taste something new. Always west of where he is now, he'll move to find another adventure. His caramel skin is leathered from sun and rain, but he doesn't mind. Each voyage is another hole he fills in his mental map. He's taken millions of photographs of all the places he's lived, breathing their air, drinking their coffee, touching their ground. No one has seen these pictures though because his travels limit his companionship. But for him, it's okay, because he is learning to discover himself.

corvee

I slave so my squandered dreams provide a foundation for my children's feet, that they may never witness the negligence of man.

panjandrum

i wonder what the air between us is thinking
when I look into your eyes
(rose)

He uses his body to keep me from shifting. This yielding embrace I have allowed him despite our questionable past. I am nothing like him: his lineage, his upbringing and his well-preserved mannerisms. I lack his restraint. Underneath his arms, I feel the weight of power and prestige. I am frail and uncertain with nothing to offer but these temporary embraces. We're never allowed to share more. We don't allow ourselves to share more. But when we look at each other in those fleeting glances, the air between us is electric. To the world he is this grand panjandrum, to me he is just a man.

imbroglio

The ceiling is calm and repetitive like clouds, where I try to discover patterns and shapes. But I cannot find any I like. Cottage-cheese ceilings, that's what they call them, I think as I stare up from my bed. In bed no one can touch me, making it the only time I don't have to handle responsibilities and deal with the hidden imbroglio of life. I stare at the ceiling at this relief, the hills create shadows from the ceiling fan light because I'm too lazy to turn it off. Leave my comfort zone? Never I say. I will lie here until the next time I wake up, real mountains have become my sky and the walls of my room disappear.

hydromancy

She was on the floor laughing by the time I got there after hearing that ridiculous thump. Bubbles foamed from the washing machine, glued to each other, glued to her. I watched her hand rise and fall, then grasp her chest in efforts to maintain composure. But she didn't. Her laughs spilled as the bubbles did, everywhere. I lifted the machine lid only to find water and more bubbles brewing before I stopped the cycle. Carefully I slid next to her, feeling her breath as she took my hand. I saw my soul in her glance and faint smirk. As she shrugged her shoulders I wondered what kind of magic this was.

favonian

I can see the fallen leaves disappear as the wind blows them into the gutters of dirty rain water. Just yesterday the wind had blown them away from their mothers, dying of thirst. Shelley said the West Wind moves us. Transcedence through seasons, transcedence through life. He asks, "If winter comes, can spring be far behind?"

I've watched the wind destroy green life around me, could it possibly help preserve it now? The breeze lifts my skirt gently to coax me into its good graces. Already the lilac bushes have started to bloom. Their cotton-candy sweetness hugs my skin as the wind blows. Redemption from the winter it asks from me.

vanward

She was in the vanward of her life, yet she never could figure out why she always felt behind.

edulcorate

The tea bags were resting in the sink, soggy from their warm bath. I watched her open the wooden cabinet door in search of some, meticulously hidden item. When she found it, she carefully lifted it from it's home and set it on the table next to a silver spoon.

"If you want sweetened tea, the sugar is here," she smiled politely.

In the years that I've known her, we drank our tea black to taste the natural, familiar flavors of home. I shook my head against the sugar and watched her unlatch the jar lid. The spoon crushed and sifted the glistening crystals, tempting, no promising a false satisfaction that she hadn't wanted before. I left for the parlor as I heard the heavy clanking of the spoon against glass.

...

Unfortunately dear readers I was out of the country over spring break and was not able to continue writing. Thus, the words from that week will not be included, but now I will begin again as time dictates.

blowdown

This is the blowdown showdown as the trees bend from my fumes and my chambers expel in pools of heated wings.


(What magnificent things volcanoes are!)

mansuetude

Well it's time to be wise, wise in the ways of the heart to come out from under the covers, this voluntary state of apart

I try to remain quiet. I do. I try to remain quiet as we leave again, knowing we will meet within a week, a few days or even an hour. But each moment we must leave, I feel the calm of loneliness and I don't want to let you go. I will yell and scream so you can hear me wherever you wander or wherever life sends me. Loudly, I will call, that when you wake from slumber you will know me smiling around your body and how often I dream of you. I can't remain gentle. I will rage unitl we are together again.

undergird

Everyday she lifts both of those heavy weights, one in front of the other, with the help of her arms and the balancing bars--all in hopes of turning them into feet again.

stolid

When I'm 40 and a week short of my mid-life crises (where I buy a new sports car that my daughter eventually will drive, and my wife can't manage losing those pesky 10lbs for the office holiday party), I will remain stolid in my manner. Because, now, when I am able to make choices about the future I will not worry about my 40-year-old state of mind and the boredom I've succumbed to willingly. Instead I will choose the future that is gilded with 401Ks and fun, enjoyable vacation windows.

That is how we've been groomed. So we give up our innocent creativity.

chivalry

Jacob opened the door for a lady in pink. She wore blonde hair, a flashy bag and a little dog. Probably Mr. D's guest, Jacob thought. He always has pretty women visitors. As the woman passed without a glance, Jacob shut the door behind her. It was, after all, his job. To open doors without question, without a word. And they gladly paid him for his silence. They paid him for this blatant advertisement of chivalry because they couldn't be bothered to do the same.

Jacob stared into the street. It seemed so vast and pleasant, a road leading towards better things. It led to his home, eventually, across the harbor where he grew up. The money here was good though, so he worked here. Here, at least in a safe neighborhood, and expensive enough that he made extra during the holidays. It was just so lonely. He barely uttered any words, except on occasion to the other employees, but they resided inside. He had to stay outside by himself until the night man came. Roy was cheerful, but by that time, Jacob was ready to head home.

A young, well-dressed gentleman caught Jacob's eye as he ran across the street. He dodged a car, laughed and headed towards Jacob's door.

"Hello." Jacob just stared at him.
"Hello, is this 315 Pine?" the man asked. Jacob nodded.
"Oh, thank goodness. This is what they arranged? You must be Jacob. They told me a fine gentleman would be at the door. It's really great meeting you, I hope to see you later," the gentleman spoke delightfully and handed Jacob a bill.
"Thank you, sir."
"Please, call me John." Jacob nodded and smiled.

squib

we tell other countries that power belongs to US because we know better, and they can't handle things like governments and nuclear plants. because, after all, we dropped that little firecracker--twice--to make our power heard. we know better.

perpetuity

I don't think you understand.
This is how it's always been.

We started kingdoms in war. We ended cities in war. It goes on forever this way, cycles of fighting. Violence for peace. Because we believe there is no other way. If we don't, they will. Again, and again, and again.

abbreviate

He asked me looking over the ledge, "Life is too short, why would you end it now?"

raffish

Rachel stared at the rap video on MTV. Women with large breasts and thick thighs danced provocatively around a male, idolizing him and his gold chains. The beat was okay, the words needed polishing. She turned off the TV anyways. No real change in the industry would come if she kept watching. Rachel started scribbling in her notebook and practiced her rhymes. they say difference is equal, but look at my hands, worn torn from sweatshops and broken promises of man...

...

Everything I've written seems too obvious. Too normal--or really too I know this is what moves people. I keep wondering what makes a good writer subtle? Or adept at style? Really, what makes a good writer: popularity, style, or marketability?

Certainly I can figure out a way to not just tell the audience: oh well, this is sad, and this, you should be angry. I have to find some way to show you, let you figure out the feelings on your own (course, there are some obvious undertones).

Anyways I actually had this horribly long rant about writing (around the word Holy Writ), and I still haven't figured it out. I honeslty don't think my writing is anything superb, but then again the point of this is to just write--regardless of any mastery of language. (Although I seem to have the description part down, perhaps because of newspaper and detective stories, not to mention I've managed to nail a few good metaphors).

Other than that I find most of my stuff silly. I can sift through my words of the day and tell you off the bat which ones I like (just a handful such as: deasil, apercu and pestilence) and which ones I don't (more than a handful such as: apologia, lotusland and jeremiad). I am glad that there is a small audience that enjoys reading my writing--most appreciated.

This makes me wonder why are we so critical of writing. I guess academia has to have certain rules to abide by, but creative? Shouldn't we be happy that some kid out there is writing, for pure pleasure, for pure happiness.

Ah well, I really love editing anyway.

jeremiad

The warnings kept flowing through my head. I kept hearing her words of how one man can ruin your life. One man potentially will break your heart, leave you dumped in the middle of nowhere with nothing. This man, she was sure of it, would too. My mother, so convinced, yelled out her life story trying to convince me as well. But I couldn't hear her. I already threw my bags into his trunk and slid into the passenger seat. I looked at her. She just stared at me. She kept staring as we drove onto the road.

orphic

He still finds her fascinating. Even past on an doff dreams they share. He still chases her to her residence to be near her, even if he's not with her. There have been others. All with similar names, heritage and perhaps even personality. He liked them, tried to make them work, but they never did. They weren't her. So he'll stay here breathing her waste, in a city he chose to love because she lived it. Whether or not she loved him, whether or not they worked. He was still fascinated.

accolade

Through all the praises and accolades thrown at me for traveling up so far, I look at my empty plate of nothing to continue on.

folderol

She talks to me as if I'm a tape recorder, absorbing every word from her mouth. Years of friendship reduced to a temperamental trendy bag full of things to say, but never finding a chance because I'm getting stuffed with her other belongings.

caitiff

I missed Maria. I remember the day when Mama fired her. Maria was our housekeeper for two years. Some of Mama's jewelry had gone missing. She threw a fit because these were heirlooms her third husband gave her before they divorced. She always loved too many men. She always loved her jewelry.

I hoped Mama would be angry. I wanted her to ask me to look for them with her--or take me out shopping with her so we could buy another fancy necklace or ring. Instead she pushed me away asking her new boyfriend to help her. He was a nice man. He tried to win me over with elegant trinkets, more so than her other ones.

As Mama scuffled frantically in search, Maria took me for gelato in the park. She always sang to me as we walked, telling me I was a good daughter, how smart I am, how beautiful I look. We'd lick our spoons, mine silver, hers plastic, and she'd hold me as if I were hers.

Mama fired her later that evening, accusing Maria of stealing her pearls. I cried when she left. I yelled at Mama. I think Mama felt threatened by Maria, even though Mama didn't care for me. I was still her property.

I never gave Mama back her pearls. I kept them when Maria left. I was angry, so I sold them later to someone on the street. I took the money and bought a gelato in the park, and mailed the rest to Maria.

interpellate

Because he believed he understood it, he drew a line down the middle of the room and said, "People like you stay on that side of the room, while people like me can stay here."


(to identify with a particular idea or identity)

refulgence

John rolled the stones across his hands, over the palm and the fingers, and back again trying to hide its brilliance from his eyes. He knew it was wrong to keep it, but all he thought about was money. Money to leave his poor background. Money to take care of his mom and sister. Money to record his album he'd been working on for years. He could feel the stones' edges graze his skin, seducing him to keep them.

John stared at a well-dressed man having lunch with another pampered colleague. She was Barbie come alive, blonde hair, blue eyes and a sexy, revealing pick mini dress. He felt his gaze lower from her face, then snapped back to the man. Cool, suave, and loaded. John felt out of place, but he came here to persuade himself. He would live the lifestyle of those people. He would know the value of money.

holy writ

When I was young, I loved reading the Book of Genesis and imagining the creation of earth and of man. Now I love learning about earth processes that formulate landforms I'm in awe of when I visit them. I also understand the evolution of species.

Can you trust science and still believe in God?

bromide

(based on retellings of Italian Folklore)

So Violetta left her family to discover her future in this world. As the horse carried her into the forest she shivered from the sudden gusts of wind. Upon a clearing the horse began to speak, catching Violetta by surprise.

"My dear, because you have been so kind to me, I will save you from my master."
Violetta nodded, "What am I to do?"
The horse nudged closer as Violetta stroked its mane. "First you continue on this path until you reach a well. Lift the bucket up and take the walnut inside. It will be useful to you later. Then continue on the path until you reach the palace. It will be adorned with many jewels. When asked, reply, 'I only wish to have a piece of iron.' You will mix the two elements together." With that the horse left, leaving Violetta alone to continue her journey.

Violetta followed the path and found the well. Curious, she opened the walnut and found a rich burgundy liquid, gleaning like velvet. She quickly shut the walnut knowing the contents inside were important.

When Violetta reached the glittering palace, an old woman greeted her. "Oh such a pretty girl, would you like a pretty jewel?"
Violetta was captured by the shine of a ruby but shook her head as she remembered the horses instructions. "I only wish to have a piece of iron."
The old woman nodded and gave her an ore.

The palace was bare. No furniture or paintings. It was dark, ashy gray with no inhabitants. Violetta heard the whisper of a horse neighing. She quickly opened the walnut and poured its content on the iron ore. Suddenly the horse she had traveled on galloped through the palace. It tired to crush the reaction that occur ed. A steady stream of smoke strung around the horse and only a beautiful youth was left.

"Violetta, you have saved me from the old woman's spell. She was really an evil sorceress who imprisoned me as a horse so that no one would love me. She kept me for daughter." The youth, who was really the prince of the castle, motioned to the floor. The old woman had turned into gray ash. He quickly disposed of the ashes out the door, and no sooner had he done so, the interior of the castle transformed. Elaborate furnishings and adornments appeared. Servants also suddenly appeared as well.

The prince and Violetta were quickly married and her family was invited to attend. They were so happy to see her alive and happy.

And here I am watching from the crowd
as King and Queen Violetta reign so well

terpsichorean

He moves with such a wobbly beat. One-two-almost three, as he stumbles to the floor. I help him up and guide him again, his little feet scrambling to outwit his body. One-two-three. Three and he stops, apparently surprised at his own progress before he tumbles to the ground again. He coos as we learn the mother-child dance.

catawampus

The sun hit the pavement at such an angle it blinded my eyes. I squint and find solace under the shadow of an old building. I'm so tired, but I keep walking, holding the eroding, corroding wall because it's my only friend. The only thing that has supported me. Another traveler passes by, nods and we trade stories and some mittens for a hat. No money though because we don't own metal and trees. The traveler decides to rest. He looks older than me and sallow in color. He gives me back my mittens and smiles. I hand him a plastic bag full of other plastic bags so he can rest on a pillow. I watch him close his eyes unmoving, not breathing. So I sit there for an hour and wait. I raise my gaze at the setting sun and rifle through his pockets for anything of value and continue on my way.

babel

I felt the sudden rocking of the small boat we had taken as it skimmed past an underwater mangrove growth. An outlying branch almost cut my skin as I shifted with the boat. This place was unfamiliar, water unclear, plants--most of which I've never seen. I heard the cacophony of birds, probably confused at me, a strange intrusion in their undiscovered ecological bubble. Here in the jungle, nothing is certain.

The boat continued gliding, gathering tree litter and strings of seaweed-like plants at the helm. "Ca, coo, caw," as a bird dove towards a tree. The scuffle caused branches to shake, allowing the only wind I've felt over the past four hours blow on my forehead. The bird was indeed large, a wingspan of possibly three feet, plumage was unique to the region. I asked the local I hired to steer the boat if he had seen it before. He shrugged and motioned towards my left with great force. His dark, dirty hands shaking frantically.

There were hundreds of them as we passed silently under the outcrop of trees. The local and I lay back and looked up in wonderment. Birds, beautiful birds spiraling upward towards heaven as tiny beams of sun crept through the foliage. In the center, there he was, magnificent monster I hadn't noticed before, but he had a crown of feathers stemming from his head. The local smiled, yellow teeth shining against his skin. "King," he said. "King."

palinode

I once told you the world is round. I was most decidedly wrong. Forget that statement. The world is very much indeed flat. So flat that the slope is zero, thus when I attempt to roll a boulder it won't begin to move unless I push it. And if I continue to push the boulder it would reach the end of the earth and fall into space.

I say this in hindsight because I know how you will treat me now. Forget science because if you do not accept me I will end up penniless and ridiculed. I am sacrificing discovery so I can be happy and you can be ignorant.

The world is flat. Will you accept me now?

twee

It's just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But he carefully crafted it, smuggled it over and left it (written note attached) outside my classroom door. This sandwich is for me.

manifesto

I bite my nails.

Well actually, just the middle finger on my right hand. So in truth, I bite my nail. The deepest it's gotten was when i was little. I think it was only a couple of millimeters in height. It's a pretty nasty habit--I've had people tell me. The best (aside from birth) that nail has been was probably...I can't remember. I look at it now knowing I've already taken a nibble.

I don't know why I do it. I've tried to figure it out. I ask, "Self, why do you bite your nail?" (No answer). "Self, please, tell me why you bite that nail?" (No answer still). I've never gotten a straightforward answer. It's my own nail, and I haven't discovered why I do it or why I haven't stopped. And I've tried, a lot. My attempts allow it to grow back in a long demented state, only to meet the gnashing of my teeth. Sometimes I'll pick at it too with my other nails. It makes me realize how we can't control human emotions. Things happen, nothing is perfect. Sometimes it makes me feel small, such a little thing in this world. But, it also reminds me how much of an impact one small thing can make.

"Self, why don't you stop biting your nail?"
"...because I've got work to do."

comity

We don't know each other anymore. It stopped when I turned 16, found a car and time to waste. He was 11 and decided to disappear into the computer. Since then our relationship has been strained. We never talk unless it's in passing to relay messages from our parents.

A couple times though, we've broken this silent contract when we play games. Sometimes when I see him crouched on the floor cushions, eyes intently on the TV, I decide to join. I'll grab a controller and, if he chooses to allow it, start playing next to him. For this moment "we" actually exist, we actually laugh. Blurred distinctions of age, gender, brother and sister. There's cries of admiration of beating a boss. A shriek of anguish from accidentally running into a wall. Curse words challenging the other, "You think you're better?" "Oh yeah, bring it on!" We're playing to win, to prove our worth, to show each other this is what you've missed these past three years. This is what you've done. This is what I've done.

When one of us gets tired or the game is over, we must retreat. In the end, it doesn't matter who wins or loses, or if the game was beaten. We return to our lives and live the nonverbal agreement, hoping for the next chance at civility.

grudging

try to see it my way...we can work it out

I walk because I can, because I know nothing else and because I have no other choice. And as I walk I drop a seed, a little brown simple thing, into the ground. I continue walking as far as my legs carry me, dropping seeds everywhere I can in places I know nothing of that have no choice but to grow. You may think I have no sense, a ridiculous boy wearing a steel pot for a hat. It's my shining helmet that protects me from hearing your insolence. It protects me from seeing your crimes.

I walk and plant apple seeds that bloom into magnificent trees. Trees that provide shade for you to rest under. Trees that birth apples for you to nourish. Trees that have arms that you can kindle. Trees that have heart that you can build. You will take this gift I leave for you and cut lumber into homes. But if you cut every gift I give, the ridiculous one won't be me.

lotusland

Staring at the Web site, Bill sighed. It was suppose to be the happiest place on earth. The cursor hovered over the purchase button. Bill sighed again and clicked the red x to close the browser window. What was he going to do this time? He promised his daughter they would go last year, but then that's when they had to move to this new job. They didn't give him much time and there was so much packing and unpacking. Terribly hectic time, no good for travel. The year before that, well, he'd been laid off and money was tight, so they didn't go. She seemed happy enough at the local amusement park with a cheap, stuffed bear and candy. This year she--after watching the God damn promotional video...Bill pounded his fists on the keyboard. He turned his hands around to look at the red imprint mocking him, "Yeah, you'll definitely win Father of the Year," it sneered. Next year then, as he looked at her watching the video again, leaning on Minnie as if it were a pseudo mother. She loved every damn thing in those videos, but he didn't have the heart to tell her that that was the closest she'd ever get.

for a wonderful thoughtof lotusland click here

disingenuous

(i think i've hit my lull

sometimes i look at my writing and think, wow, this reminds me of really bad poetry. my excuses on my inability to write may be insincere.)

on normal days in evening hours
we lay face to eyes to face
sharing words in gentle tones
enjoying each other's taste

but tonight is different, tonight changed
when we lay back to unwavering back
as close as we can exist in touch
we see only silence lacks

waiting to turn and face the other
yet we're bound away invisibly
not a single word i'll speak
less he turns first to me

gambit

The pieces felt right when he touched them, calculating each move. They were ground smooth and dark cherry brown. When he held the piece between his thumb and first two fingers, a sense of power crept into his head. This move, this could, no would guarantee him an advantage. The bishop slowly crossed empty squares, slowly passed a tragic knight and his own valiant pawn, and slowly rested on its deathbed. When he released his grasp, he discovered the bishop's head molded inside his fingerprint. The assailant hastily countered the move, almost too readily admitting defeat as he collected the entombed bishop. His mind smiled, the end game was beginning.

rarefied

Nervousness embraced him. Any man in his position would be nervous; it was perfectly logical. Nonetheless his knees shook and his palms sweat. Even under the Italian, 3-piece wool suit, his confidence slouched, wrinkling the fabric below his shoulder blades. Despite weeks of careful preparation, nothing could determine the outcome of tonight. As he stood in a heap of darkness and charcoal air, tourists passed half-aware of the attractively tanned gentleman on the promenade. A gentleman who was scared.

His stained leather oxfords picked up the beat of what he thought was a street musician. He begun pacing, only then realizing it was his blood pumping. He removed his hands from his trouser pockets and with his left hand, twisted his cuff link in the button hole around and around. After a few minutes he shoved both hands back into his pockets, forcefully so that his belt strained. The moisture from his fingers allowed them to glide over the band of an expensive stone chosen from a special selection. The perfect diamond. His heart stopped when she caught his eye. For the perfect girl.

verjuice

We'll look back at today and probably remember so little. Forgetting if we woke up upset or tired. Forgetting if we remembered our class lecture or if we dropped change in a tip jar. Forgetting if we argued, exchanging angry shouts. Forgetting thin dreams of celebrities or fashion magazines. Forgetting the bad grade and a lapse of stupidity. We'll learn from the bad days, even those ones where we met mean-spirited people who try to drag us down. We'll forget them. We'll look back at today and all we'll remember is our emotions, how we really felt about each other. We'll realize what really matters, and remember what we did.

wherewithal

there's nothing we couldn't do, me and you and our dreams
we could wake up every morning like we owned today

scintillate

Tabitha didn't understand why her parents named her that as she glaredat her embossed pencils. Seriously, how uncool, she thought shoving back into her black Jansport backpack she had begged her parents to buy instead of that hideous flowered one. She had carefully scrutinized which patches to iron on the bag as well. Stuff like this used to not matter, but she was in the 7th grade now and on the fringe of the in-crowd. This year was going to be even better. She had an invite to Shelley's birthday sleepover party and Shelley specifically told her that they would have their sleeping bags next to each other. They would talk about boys, which teacher sucked and maybe what Tabby would do for her birthday.

Shelley was the coolest girl in middle school. She seemed to set off sparks when she paraded down the hallway. Tabby wanted to be exactly like that. She got lucky when her dad threw her a surprise concert for her and some school friends. He had some very cool clients. Her dad was Shelley's dad boss, so Shelley was invited. Good for Tabby. From that day on, Shelley always asked Tabby to do things and that was enough for Tabby. Shelley obviously knew better, and who ultimately had the power. Sooner or later Tabby would figure it out.

pestilence

"They fancied themselves free, and no one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences..."

He continued reading to himself Camus' work, which was resting on his lap. I studied him studying the text. His eyes, wide open, lashes unwavering, were completely engulfed. His body hunched forward, head hung over the literature, while his legs were crossed, one bent underneath the other, foot resting on its side. He was so still as if time paused to understand the plight of Oran and prayed for its longevity.

Time moved again when he turned the page. I watched him intently because I could not understand why I wanted to watch him. Why his shape and form mattered; why understanding his motions, especially those that involved me, mattered. Motionless, I still did not comprehend anything. Why did he love me?

He turned suddenly catching me off guard, disarming me with a smile--it spread across his face completely consuming his cheeks, then, his eyes. Quickly it spread to me. I smiled back helplessly, feeling absurd and yet so happy to have caught this disease, this love.

apologia

Silence blanketed us for the last 10 minutes. I kept staring at the ground, soggy from rain-sweat leaves and mud-dragged footprints. I just stared at the ground, regardless of my wet jeans impressed into the metal bench.

"I know I keep saying this, but I'm sorry. It didn't mean anything and it never will. That was the only time." He looked at me with those soft sea blue eyes, pleading his case. I felt angry, but mostly I felt sorry for the other girl, unknowing, unsuspecting. He made us both fools like a soap opera triangle.

"What's her name?" I asked, only now returning his gaze.
"Does that even matter?" He paused, "I think it was Sarah..." Sarah, poor naive Sarah, poor me. I heard him mumbling apology after apology in the background of how she didn't know that he had a girlfriend, but she did come on to him. The poor girl probably woke up the next morning, confused because he left her to rejoin reality. She didn't know better. I didn't know better. He does.

"Baby please. I've always wanted you. It was such a hard moment then. I love you. I love you so much." And I wanted to believe, so I looked into his calming eyes of five-year loving gazes. I stared so strong my eyes couldn't blink. I kept searching and searching. But all I saw was my reflection.

eddy

She swam because she could, since she was borne with the gift of mermaid, as her mother called it. Competition after competition, medals after medals, athletic scholarship to her college choice. The air was still chilly outside but she was accustomed to the salty beach water. This was her peace of mind. It's not that she didn't enjoy it because the activity had promised an eventful life. But contrary to popular assumptions, she didn't do it because she was good at it nor because she was passionate about being the next Olympic hopeful. What drove her into it was one thing, or really, one person. When she was six, her dad yelled at her for being ridiculous about pretending to be a mermaid. That was before he permanently walked out. That was before she won her first competition.

pastiche

Is there no original thought anymore? Ideas, seem to be stale, or those that could pass for fresh are often old ideas repackaged. These are trial and error, constructed from experience and failures. So here is an idea: I love you. An idea as old as time, possibly overdone from cinema. But the I (me) and the you (You) make it unique--almost new. This idea is drawn from previous ones, I loved him, you loved her. Everything we learned to create this new thought: I love you. Perhaps even a better idea: You love me.

grub street

beatnik babies sway to 'da beat
fast cash drops, picked money from Ties
five dollar meals fuel me and my dreams
street beat savings for window display prize

fructify

My last semester and I'm just as productive as ever. I was really hoping for a break, especially since I've worked so hard every year, all my life. Not sure what I'm even getting in the end. I guess when you always strive for the better, you're stuck with you dedicated goals. Only to discover, dreams change, opportunities arrive, some disappear, and all your plans complicate. Really, what I'm taking now is unnecessary, but I believe, I want to learn. For me, I believe that when I leave I'll grow. And maybe I'll take you with me. Dreams change, and I'll take on everything if it means I get you.

spindrift

on the living coast, crowds watching the spindrift in the sea. seafoam air welcomes, kisses the coral castle of ocean blue dividing the sticky algae green. our cameras flash on the fine-grain sand, 2-carat diamond fine. red carpet ready drapes the oyster like a baby nestled in a mother's arm, heart beat, ba ba bum, ba ba....boom open. man can't conceive the pearl with golden hair, Venus, love of beauty, birth from immortal fingers spin water.

congeries

each shell was separated into their distinct category. bivalvia, scaphopoda, gastropoda. meticulously scripted labels in white. but there was one group that stood out. amāre. a collection of shells of no scientific purpose but of memories. the jagged fragment of a sand dollar missing its matching piece where the arrowhead breathed. an eroded cockle molded smooth by sea tales. sprinkles of coquinas lay next to the partial curvature of gold, white and sunset of a pear whelk. each piece in its incomplete form stood to offer more than the others. a tribute to the heart.

apercu

Corner of 6th and Park, I'm waiting to cross among the horde of us well-bred (we hope) and well-dressed (we really hope). The usual split-second light is still running green, letting cars overrun pedestrians: machine versus man on a city boxing pathway. Waiting on this corner always feels like forever, and we all have places to go that don't involve you. Time likes to play long jokes, so I give in and fix my skirt the wind tried to buy from me. Hair too. Hell, I open the pale blue magic of a brand to pull out my lipgloss as well. Open, twist, apply and purse lips. I'm always standing on some corner, idly fidgeting, trying to find myself. Whatever streets I run across, traveling to big box-lego blocks, I'll find some temporary piece of mind, like all of us, when the light fades red and the white man flashes me by.

----
I watch the corner from the deli, the beautiful, the smart. People waiting impatiently for life to fly by them.

As if this moment didn't matter.

The lady with the big sky bag is diggin for something to solve her problems, but she's not going to find it in a purse. No, answers don't come in a shiny red tube, nor do they have time to visit when we're running bye-bye. Here at crosswalk heavens, moments surpass time.

derelict

The four of us sat here because this place let us see above everyone. We could see everything and hear idle chatter, motor groans and chirping walkways. Temporary escape from the city by watching above it. We watched today because Matt was gone. Thirty-two years short of happiness and left us with broken eyes, solid tears and swollen hearts. Looking over the balcony ledge we would set him free. What if I fell and no one could catch me, one of us quietly thought. What would Matt say right now if he were here, another one of us wondered. Our words lay silent against the ashes. We each grabbed a handful, soft soot melting through cracks in our hands, Matt slid through our fingers again, this time among buildings and skyline. He had climbed himself higher than us, without us, because we didn't understand. He had fallen harder than any of us but by then it was too late. The pavement didn't stop him, his mind already had. Ashes clung to our open hands.

interlocutor

Listen, closely.
Then tell me what you hear.

burgeon

baby i ain't no cheap trick you can bend when you feel like on a whim when you never share anything with me, despite everything i've done for you, yet you still ask me to give, more and more, and so much more, but baby because i'm strong, because i know what i'm going to become if i stay here and rot, i'm moving on and on to get away from you so i can grow, when God pours water on my soil, I'll sprout and grow and grow, and grow into a tree so tall and tough that it will shadow you, and I'll know baby, you won't have a chance

Quodlibet

We were dancing outside underneath a country star-studded sky. Joe decided that the bar should have a dance night again, so we all supported him even if we all didn't have dates. It'd been five years and I was still slow. But Joe wanted this, and who can say no to Joe? We continued dancing when the music picked up to a fun, familiar little tune. The music and words clashed with my heart pumping beats. I could hear Joe say, "Well darlin' let's start moving," like usual when we heard a good song. I picked up my skirt and swirled it around as we two-stepped out. Joe turned me around, "Thank you for this." Five years, and I was still so slow.

ramify

We could take a chance if you let me. We could talk if you let me. We could talk about the past, what happened between us, why things fall apart. We could talk about now, how we've grown. Ask how we've been and where we are going. We could talk about out passions, our friends, our new lives. We could talk about what we've learned from each other, our mistakes and how we're better people now. We could give each other a chance. We could talk.

coruscate

Each sequin is hand sewn with intricate care and detail. He stares at the glittery creation that has already taken weeks of his life. This dress is the one. As he thoughtfully runs his thin, nimble fingers through the plush silk, he takes heed of how the fabric drapes on the model's body. She's grown bored and is looking out the window wishing to be at the restaurant across the street so she can give up her dietary restrictions. But the temptation is too great. The popularity contest, the free gifts, the beautiful clothes. His beautiful clothes and craftsmanship. This is how she affords his price, his innovation. As she looks down at the dress, its sparkle twinkles in her eyes.

hypnagogic

The darkness of light casts itself in gray over the sky. Roads painted with rainslicked cars run in and out of the city. In our room all we see is gray. Even the trees are gray. Once we turn off the ambient glow of false sun, the room remains dark. Gray like the sky. The stark contrast is overwhelming temperature. Hot here. Cold out there.
From the window we see someone walk by, rain boots tackling sloshy puddles with a quick one-two step. The water leaps and sticks to the boots, slipping whimsically back down to the ground. The rain traveler turns and looks at us through the window and points to the sky, smiling as if she knows the biggest secret.

deasil

I watched him as he moved around the kitchen in a frenzy hurry, hands whipping the egg whites in a clockwise direction. After 10 minutes they were beginning to froth into white mounds in hopes of becoming fluffy clouds. "We're making the best macaroons!" he said with pure delight at the notion that this time it would work. This time we would make it.
Last time he fervently kneaded the dough for cookies. It was a year ago when we put the Hershey Kisses into the center of each baby mound. That was the second time he left. This time, this time things are different he told me when I opened the door to let him into my life again. I watched him drop the balls of fluff onto the tray, white and innocent, like hope.
"This is going great. See how perfect they are?"
"Yeah," I mumbled, half-smiling at him, half-looking at the mixing bowl in the sink. Bubbles and water residue from a quick rinse. I glanced back at him as he pushed the tray into the oven knowing tomorrow he wouldn't be there to enjoy them.

soidisant

The monotone ringing of the phone. Okay, breathe, this is your call. The weeks of preparation: knowing who you are talking to, understanding their situation, relaying what you learned to help them. Yes, they have a problem, and you are here to fix it. You have the solution. As the phone rings, your confidence grows. The receiver clicks, "Hello?" Yes, this is your time to shine. "Hi, this is Shirley with AT&T, may I speak with the decision-maker of the house?"

career

With racetrack precision he cruised through the currents only to be caught off-guard by her stare.

imbue

crimson, violet, turquoise, emerald. the silk scarves tied onto her body gleamed from the gold thread embroidery. her body's movement caught the rise and fall of each color, creating an air show of floating butterflies. she turned increasingly faster as her heart beat faster. one two three four, my heart i give to you, five six seven eight, with you love you give yours too. in her head only romance existed as she danced, turning faster and faster until she collapsed onto the cushioned floor under the weight of her daydream. crimson, violet, then turquoise and emerald followed her wistfully down.

oblivion

This is easier she thought. Then I don't have to take responsibility and I won't get all the blame. No one else will have to worry about me, the complication. I can't stand all the yelling, the fighting, the hateful worrying remarks about my blatant stupidity. He doesn't even love me anyways. The day I told him I wasn't sure where my heart would be thrown. In the middle of nowhere now. She kept driving away from everything with the unborn baby thinking how the world would be better with her gone. She never felt her head hit pavement when her car veered off the road.

wildcatter

Things you learn in your line of work. A risky estimate to drill where oil might exist to lifeline fuel into cars, homes and greed’s pockets. How much is worth your time. At what cost are you satisfied. At what price are you sold. Why is this so wrong?

superjacent

The painting reflected raw emotion she decided as she stared at its crooked balance. She lay beside him breathing heavily. So this is what a real feast feels. When he was above her, she felt the warmth of his heart, breath and hands that skimmed over her breast. Sweat dripped down her neck as they shifted under the covers that blanketed their awkward nudity. The painting on the wall fell to the floor awakening him. “Did we do that?” he asked while turning to face her. The lovers muffled chuckles disappeared with each successive kiss.

bilious

The smell of sulfur and cigarette butts crept through the stifling air. No one was in sight until we walked towards the kitchen where a man, hunched over the sink, turned to face us.
“Whadya want?” he asked with a raspy tone. The grime on his teeth almost completely covered the yellow enamel that struggled to survive. I noticed a missing gap where a tooth once lived.
“We’re just looking for him.”
The man glared, “Get out! He’s not here anymore. Leave! Leave!” His eyes looked as if he’d throw the blade he tightly gripped in his bony hands. The glint of the blade was already red.

golden handcuffs

sometimes you're handed everything
but it's what you do with it that matters

i hate fall-backs on nothing

aleatory

Maybe they're signs
Maybe they aren't

But humans like to believe things happen for a reason, some things are predestined. Why else do we have faith--was God predestined as well? So what makes us choose. Ignore the signs, screw this backfired electricity we depend upon. When is free will our choice.

pandect

At a company where rules seem to not exist, their uncorporate philosophy dangles like bait. That worm on a hook in front of our oogling fish eyes. See. Wait. Bite. But it's catch and release in this sea. Their rules seem to defy what we've known. Will we be batched into the net?

ululate

You could hear moans coming down the soft dirt path. Not many people passed through these back woods of rusting car parts, torn tree limbs and stale air. But the air, however foul, ran with her cries. Three-years-old and already a slave to typhoid. He could all but say, "mama" when he fell asleep.