What Music Is"What is music?"What Music Is2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
A young boy asked me that today.
I bent down to his level, so our faces met eye to eye, and, grinning, I responded.
"Why do you care? Out of our world today, why is it you who cares?"
He looked thoughtfully back at me with his eyes, too full of wisdom for his age, and he said, "Because I want to make good music someday."
I liked his answer, so I told him I did. He smiled, seeming honestly pleased that I liked his opinion. He grabbed my hand as I stood up, pleading at me with his eyes, and when I looked into them, I knew he wanted to hear more.
"I will show you the things that proper music make." I said to him. And as I walked along down the street with this child's hand in mine, I thought of how trusting he was being. I didn't know what to make of it, but as he followed along the street with me, I began to point out the things with which proper music was made.
"Music," I said, pausing to think. He looked up at me, as he had noticed my pause because we had stopped walki
Home For Christmas8:23 PMHome For Christmas2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Ellie waited for him that night. She waited faithfully on the couch by the door. She didn't care that she was in her pajamas, or that her hair was a mess. She didn't care that her makeup was running from the happy tears of anticipation. She didn't mind that the house was messy from the shreds of wrapping paper that were left on the floor, or that it still faintly smelled like turkey.
Her children were asleep upstairs, wrapped warmly within their blankets. They didn't know what she did, and they would awake to the best surprise in the morning. Their father.
She waited patiently, at first; her patience waning away with each passing minute. Her worry growing as she watched the clock move slowly. Her mind drifted. All the happy memories of the evening flooding back to her. The children opening much appreciated gifts, family conversing, music playing. Her mood was drudged and impatient during the festivities. She was happy, but a bit off.
She awoke with a start t
No PrincessI watched a story when I was five years-old. I watched the movie that I know by heart and backwards. The story every little girl believes is how life is going to be. The story every little girl acts out in her bedroom, wearing a plastic tiara and her mother's too-big high heals. It's a love story. I would always have my favorite teddy bear be the prince. It ended happily ever after each and every time I played. And I was the happily married princess.No Princess2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Maybe I watched it too many times. I was eight and I thought I was in love. I thought I had found the perfect boy to be my prince. I would see him at school and he would be my happily ever after prince, in my imagination. The girls teased me for thinking so. I called them my step-sisters. They resented me for it, and I was ridiculed more. I stopped saying my romanticised thoughts out loud. I quit pretending I was characters when I was in front of people. It was the easiest thing to do.
By the time I was twelve, I was thinking I was destine
Teach Me How To LoveTeach me how to loveTeach Me How To Love2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
What is it?
I wondered as I wandered, stepping from riverstone to riverstone.
What is love?
I traced the heart I had drawn on my wrist as I lept onto another stone, slipping and sliding nearly into the water.
Someone to catch you.
I made a mental note. You have to fall into love, so there must be a need for someone to catch you. Or else you end up like in the river; wet, alone, and crying.
I steadied myself on the rock, measuring the distance to the next with my eyes. It was farther than I could reach, so I lept for a closer one, realizing only after that it made not a single difference in the distance. My sundress grazed the water slightly as I stepped back, jumping for the riverside.
My feet met the cool, moist soil, my toes curling to catch my balance. The dirt stuck to my feet and was an utterly odd feeling after the smooth feeling of the cool and mossy stones.
Different. Someone different.
I mused. No one should be the
The ComposerYes, I am a composer. I move my hands differently than I should, so true. I do not have a band at hand, or a chorus willing to sing along. But, I am a composer.The Composer2 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
I write little notes. I'm positive composers do that, too. I use "C"s and "D"s like every good composer should. My "C"s and my "D"s are different, though. You don't hear them. They play silently. They are in the little voice in your head, reading along to the tune of the words. They form words. They are words. Couldn't explain any better, you see. But, I am a composer.
I write little transitions into my notes. I make them flow, much like a waterfall. Composers would follow my lead as I did so. As I reached a climactic peak with my "C" I would need to transition it to something softer. My transitions are different, though. You don't notice them. You simply glide through my works, your mind enveloped with the flow I've worked to create. Couldn't work any harder for that, you see. But, I am a composer.
2. Inked Pages About YouHe is beautiful, new, unexplored. His eyes lower to the ground and his lips smack together as he swallows. It’s something he doesn’t notice he does, but I do. His lashes are longer than mine but in a way I’m only jealous of them because they get to frame his lovely dark eyes. I want to make them cry beautiful tears, happy tears, someday.2. Inked Pages About You1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He is beautiful, new, unexplored. His body trembles as much as it does when he’s in the cold, but we’re in a very warm room. I touch his hand and bring it to my chest whispering encouraging things like “I Love You” and “Touch Me” and he stays firmly planted at my shoulder, either too scared or too stubborn to move it further. I kiss that palm and say it’s alright that he doesn’t want to, even when I don’t feel like it is. I put my arms back into shirtsleeves and he stops me from pulling it on again just to look into my eyes and say “I love you.”
12I am the same girl I was six weeks ago.122 years ago in Personal More Like This
The wide eyes, the thick yet frail hair. The same cream skin I wish to be copper, with dancer's feet and wrinkles around her mouth already. I have the same weak legs I try to make stronger each day, and my toes are just as odd-looking; the second is taller than the first.
Nothing has changed. Nothing should change.
I am not the same girl I was this morning.
With an unsteady hand I felt your heart beat and my pulse thudded when your head pressed to my chest. Warm chocolate eyes and a plea to stay beckon me to kiss those tired lips to find my insomniac's cure. Fingers alight my senses and spike the nerves to sensitive lingering around my neck and back and barely visible spine.
I want to be the girl I was four weeks ago. With a steady assurance and a sly shyness about me. The potential to open up but the willpower not to. The doe-like innocence I pranced around with, happiness within the tips of my ink-stained fingers creating a world al
Broken Pieces and Fixed PuzzlesWhen one puzzle piece breaks, the entire picture suffers.Broken Pieces and Fixed Puzzles2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
For instance, if there is a puzzle with the picture of a parakeet, and the beak of the parakeet is half ripped off, the picture suffers. There will be a half-beaked parakeet.
So how are people any different?
There's gotta be a puzzle piece for each and everyone out there. But if your puzzle piece breaks, will you still fit together?
I pondered this as I sat and looked at my beakless parakeet puzzle that I had finished on my kitcen table. It was, total, about five hundred pieces. Only the one piece was deformed, but it took away from the whole bird-viewing experience. Seeing gray cardboard and a bird mesh together kind of ruins the affect.
After about five minutes of staring at my disappointing puzzle, I took it apart and put it into the box from which it came.
It was too silent in my house. No one home except for myself.
I couldn't stop thinking of my puzzle piece theory. How many people have done the wrong thing and left their