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.