The Angelic AnachronismMy turn-of-the-century French Boy
An anachronism, lost on his way home.
Walks by the stone angels,
Growing out of the ground.
He spoke with the tip of his hat
And French love letters
Waiting on my doorstep
I saved them,
Unanswered, and unopened
In an old hat-box
The frivolous-French boy
Traded his pea-coat for a business suit
And his eloquence for a profit
Sometimes he still walks by the angels
And wonders if they are sprouting,
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.I'm Just Waiting for the Rain2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leaves at 7:00 and he is at the station by 6:55. He hasn't missed a day of work in eight years.
His career isn't exactly what he hoped it would have been. If he were to think back on it, he would realize that it isn't even close. Thankfully, he never does.
At 7:45 he goes for his morning coffee runblack with two sugars. Provided the line isn't too
FFM XXVIIIf she screams the loudest that means she cares the most. Beneath her weak chest, her heart palpitates and her lungs expand to the point of near eruption. She waves her hands and stomps her feet just like everyone around her, shaking the floor with the weight of a thousand booming steps.FFM XXVII1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Now, if only he would look at her.
FFM II"Dreams are the best liars, they always know exactly what you want."FFM II1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What makes you say that?" he asks, not looking up from the glow of his phone.
"Last night, I had a dream, and it was raining, storming, with lightning flashing through the sky and thunder booming so hard it shook the floor. I was in a store, one kind of like Walmart, and there were no windows or doors. And if I had thought about it, I would have realized that it was a dream."
"What do you mean?" he says, with the click of his iPhone.
"Well, if there were no windows, I wouldn't have seen the lightning, right?"
"I suppose not," he said.
"But then, I remember I was going through the books and a spider crawled out of the shelf. And I was so scared, it felt so real. You see, dreams know exactly what makes you tick, and they plant that in there so that you believe them," she said standing up from her chair.
"Do you ever think you are just over-analyzing things Mary?"
She shook her head. "Will you hug me?"
2When she gets on the bus at the station and the bus driver steps off for his five minute cigarette break, she feels like the bus has transformed into a room full of kindergarteners who’s teacher has left to get more juice for snack-time. The bus full of white collar commuters are too petrified to do anything. She is sure most of them were the friend in high school that would always tell the group that “you know, we really should get out of here now." But as they nervously look at each other, she knows that their minds are beginning to race with the possibilities, especially when they notice that he has left the keys in the ignition. A rogue bus, holding seven passengers as hostage has left the station, he is not armed, but he might be dangerous.26 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.Impressionable2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about getting caught in a gust of wind and tossed down in a field somewhere, but secretly, she hoped for it.
She missed you. She wouldn't admit it, but I could see it in her face and hear it in her words.
She lost her right shoe one night. She walked a half mile in the rain without it and arrived at the front door with a big smile on her face. Sometimes I
Passionate IndifferenceTo say that I have lovedPassionate Indifference3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Would imply that I feel
Something more than
The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.The Man in the Coffee Shop3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.
Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.
Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hair and scream 'till my lungs burst. I scream for and at you. I ask how you could have left me here.
Sometimes I allow myself to believe that I will see you again. By chance we will run into each other in a Wal-Mart far away.
I go to the coffee shop on Tuesday afternoons. I order a small chai tea with milk.
Sometimes the man is working at th
Day NineI don’t know whichDay Nine8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’m more afraid of:
breaking your heart,
or finding that you don’t
even have a heart to break.
Day ThirteenI lost you long ago—Day Thirteen8 months ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
when you looked into my eyes
and saw someone else.
Day NineteenI.Day Nineteen8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
This building will always
remind me of you.
You left your presence
in its walls and
it creaks like a
I hear you have a
I’ll never know if
it’s a he or she,
and that is surprisingly okay.
You are every cyclist
wearing aviator sunglasses,
which means that I see you,
six times on my way home.
that is the same number
of times that my heart stops
I have a friend with
the same name as you, it
feels weird saying it
I’ve written you
pages of poems,
hoping that your memory
will bleed from my fingers
like a pen
running out of ink.
The results of
this test are
LiminalI woke after thirteen hours of sleepLiminal10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and when I looked in the mirror,
there were still bruise-purple
crescent moons beneath my eyes.
tired no longer comes from a
lack of sleep—it has reached a state
of permanence, engraving itself
into my bones. When you ask
how I am, I will now answer:
cold and tired.
It was later that night when I
tasted the liquor cabinet
to see what all the fuss was about.
Whiskey burns as it goes down
and settles in the cavity of the heart,
encompassing it with a hug
that a lover will never reach.
I now want to know if I will
ever be able to melt.
I used to close my eyes beneath
the night sky, as everything in the
universe was staring me down,
and beg that one of the
billions of beings out there
would make me smaller.
If that tiny girl
in a big open field,
beneath the big open sky,
who hadn't ever seen the big open sea,
got her wish,
would she even be able to see
herself in the mirror?
I'm coming out: I'm straightMom? Mum? Can I talk to you?I'm coming out: I'm straight5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Moms head was in Mums lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mums lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. You know you can talk to us about anything, Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty.
I took a deep breath. Guys? I dont really know how to say this but, I think Im heterosexual.
The room went silent. Mum looked up from our satanic bible and pursed her lips. For a second, I thought she was going to reach out and slap me. In a tight voice, she said, You know how we feel about heterosexuals. We raised you to be
Judgement"You need to stop doing this."Judgement2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Stop doing what?"
"Writing me into your stories."
"Because it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then."
"Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!"
"So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly."
"Well firstly, I'm a really nervous person."
"Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting your nails."
"And I don't like going out. I'm a hermit."
"Except to your best friends' houses, or to the animal shelter, or to me."
"And I'm dead inside."
"Says the boy who hides his tears at the sight of an injured puppy."
"I do not."
"Yes, you do."
"Anyway, I'm not always nice to you. In fact, I really don't do enough."
"You're right. Except yo
FFM XVIIt's only me left. I wish it could have been something cool, like from a sci-fi novel. In the end I would be saved by some kind-hearted scientist who manages to make fast-growing saplings from my seeds and then repopulate the entire grove. But this is not a sci-fi novel, and there will not be a happy ending.FFM XVI1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Half of this grove was gone with the sound of heavy machinery and a deafening crack of dry wood. No one put up a fight or showed any resistance to them. Trees don't cry. Not even when someone says something mean to them. Not even when they are lonely. Not even when a bulldozer runs them over.
I hope that when they do come for me, they will make me into something nice. Maybe a home for a nice, little family or a summer cottage on a lake. I wouldn't even mind being a chair or a park bench. Just not paper or firewood, anything but that. You get your first taste of the real world only to have it burned down or crumpled into a basket.
Since the forest floor is empty now, I can see the c
FFM XXHe arrives here at the same time that I do. He waits outside the building for the doors to open, raising his sun-weathered hands towards the sky in some sort of meditation ritual he himself made up. Once the library unlocks its doors, he says hello to the staff and takes a seat by the window. His seat. He opens up his bag of things; a jar of water, his reading glasses, a notebook, and a pen. He goes to the stacks and pulls out a children's dictionary and whatever book he plans on reading that day. Today, it happens to be about Marine Biology. He sets up the scene, notebook in one hand, pen in the other.FFM XX1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
His sanity must have gone years ago. Interesting words and phrases are compactly sprawled across every page of his tiny notebook. For years I was told to stay away from this "crazy man" as if somehow, his insanity could rub-off on me. I see him everyday, trying to fulfill the human desire to learn everything, filling his notebook with words, words, words.
3She is drinking a smoothie in Panera Bread at ten o’clock at night when she realizes that she never loved him. She still lets him walk her to the bus stop and laughs when he tells the story he’s told three times before (in his defense, it is funny), and she looks at him the same way she always did. But she feels nothing and even wonders if that was what she always felt.36 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She felt as if she should love him, after all that they did together, like lovers without the love, telling secrets in the glow of the cell phone, stories that they wouldn’t tell anyone else. They took each other on dates, walks through the park, trips to the art museum, confusing breathlessness and lack of silence for butterflies in the stomach and spending time together because it seemed right. They never know which goodbye will be the last, or if any of them ever will be. She thinks that maybe they will become drifters, exploring their respective corners of the world, but always reporting back, and
1.1. There are people who do not want an inch less of their fair share of the bus/airplane/movie theater/train/car/park bench/couch and do not hesitate to let everyone know. I do not like to sit in between two people on public transit for fear that I will spill into the space of not one, but two innocent commuters. I make a beeline for corner seats so that I can squish into the extra, empty space and pretend not to see people hesitate before sitting next to me.1.6 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. This extra layer between my skin and bones is like an armor, protecting my organs from the passing glares shot my way, the snickers, and the people I love calling themselves fatass when they eat too much frozen yogurt. My stretch marks are battle scars from the time something almost made it through.
3. When I was ten years old, my mother took me to the store to buy a new swimsuit, we went to seven different stores because we could not find one that was long enough for my five-foot-two frame, when I asked my mother why I could n
FFM VI (The Astronaut)I've always liked astronauts. There is a strange romanticism attached to someone who finds the entire world so mundane that they feel compelled to leave it behind. (I hear that the word mundane means "earthly." Figures.) They need more. They need the universe. They need everything that ever was and ever will be.FFM VI (The Astronaut)1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My husband is an astronaut, and as a child, I wanted to become one too. I could leave my little world behind. But as I grew, my little world also grew, and I realized that there was more than enough to explore and discover on this planet. I had my love, the astronaut and we lived in a tiny, little house where I played wife and he played husband. My world was little again, but it was perfect.
But of course, he had to suit up and take off. And I got left behind.
Most nights, I sit in
ourmy garden, and look up at the night sky. I watch the stars and know that he is up there, flying among them and I wish for them to bring him back.
And I know that this
FFM XVOf course it was wet, it was the 1800's!FFM XV1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
No one could remember when the rain started, and no one could see it stopping any time soon. Rain collected in buckets, gutters, potholes in the street. We learned to live with it as everyone else had done for years. It did wonders for the city's rat population (which I hear took a sharp downfall when the rain first started), and if it weren't for the mud, it might almost be bearable.
I, however, had grown sick of it. There were only stories of sunshine now. Stories told late at night by my grandmother, or re-told with glorious anecdotes by my brother.
There was really nothing that I wanted more than to see the sun myself. I pined to see something other than a dreary grey, to feel the touch of nothing but air
My brother made a plan to find it, and initially that plan didn't include me, but things changed. He told me his fantastical idea and there was a gleam in his eye that even the rains couldn't put out, and we both knew what would have to hap
FFM IVThey were not programmed to love. They were not programmed to feel.FFM IV1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
But they were programmed to learn.
It had been seventy-four years since their integration with the humans. Seventy-four years since a single war had broken out. The humans seemed to be fine with them and they seemed to ignore the humans.
On this particular day, a human girl named June was waiting for her friend to meet her at the bar. The lights were dim, and the air was heavy with smoke and filled with a gross but typical scent of oil and alcohol.
So June was waiting for her friend and one of them approached her to take her order.
"Would you like anything to drink?" it asked in its low, not-quite-human, not-quite-machine voice.
"Just a water for now," she said not looking up from the menu.
It made a note on its screen, but it began to talk again.
"Wow, if someone told me that humans came from assembly lines I'd believe them, because you have been made perfectly."
She put down her menu and turned towards it.
FFM IIIShe's always thought parallel lines to be a metaphor for her love life. Always going the same way, but never meeting.FFM III1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Most days, she goes to one of her favorite places; the places that manic-pixie-dream-boys meet their manic-pixie-dream-girls in the movies. Places like bookshops and coffee shops and used DVD stores and hidden parks. She does her hair and makeup and brings one of the classic books from her bookshelf. Something that she's never read before, but knows enough of the plot that she could hold an intelligent conversation should the moment strike.
She sees the same people there every day, or at least the same type. The tall skinny cyclists wearing plaid button-downs and aviator sunglasses all blend together a bit.
She tends to get the same coffee drink, some mocha blend with soy milkyou never know who might be vegan. She's not sure what's in it, but it's a number 14 and it tastes pretty good.
This particular day, she is reading Anna Karenina. It doesn't fit into h
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.Unattainable2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.
Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.
You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and became inseparable. I envy them. I envy all of them.
Some of us don't get those people; some of us don't get relied upon. We aren't all so lucky. Some of us are shunned, through no fault of our own, or perhaps through only our own fault. It's a mystery that will always escape me.
How do they do it? How do they make these excellent friends? How do they beco
Every Dog Has Its DayThere once was a dog who wandered the streets. He was a kindly dog who did not have a home.Every Dog Has Its Day2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Sometimes, he would see families at the park playing with their dogs. How he wished he were one of those dogs. After a time, he decided that he would try to befriend one of the children that played in the park. He was overcome with excitement and haphazardly ran toward a child while yelling "Hello!" over and over again. He had almost reached the child when, suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. A man had kicked him causing him to yelp in pain. He never went back to the park again.
Despite that incident, it did not deter him from trying to find someone who wanted him. The dog promised himself that if he should ever find someone to love him, he would return that love a hundredfold.
One rainy morning, as he was searching for food, he happened to come across a pet store. Inside, he saw dozens of