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.