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.
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
The SketchHe loses his first kiss in autumn. He's twelve, she's just turned thirteen, and at the time he isn't sure what all the fuss is about but knows how special it is anyway.The Sketch3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She's gorgeous, pale-skin, brown hair, dark eyes always filled with happiness and joy the way he wishes he could be. She doesn't want to be there any more than he does, and they grouse to each other about how they don't need a 'special school.' It's the first time he's worked up the courage to say it.
She carries a book too, just like his sketchbook, but she says it's a diary. It's hung with a little lock on the front and he jokes about it being the key to her heart, a little boy's poor attempt at flirting but she laughs anyway. He wants to hear that laugh again, and he does, when he shyly asks if he can draw her.
It's half-way through his sketch that she leans in and presses her soft lips to his. It's a little clumsy and awkward, given how she's standing up and he's cross-legged on the ground, and nowhere as romantic l
CharlieI had a stalker.Charlie3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
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 Rain3 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
For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,For My Daughter3 years ago in Letters More Like This
You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.
You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to the boy sitting alone at recess.
I will write you poems and stories about how you are my miracle. I will read them to you sometimes, just to remind you. As you grow, not a day will go by that I'm not thankful for everything you are. You will be dazzling and beautiful and brilliant and compassionate and playful and curious and all of the things
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.1.2 years 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
love is coming home--i don't write about God.love is coming home--4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's
BeautyShe baked cookies every Saturday morning. The doorbell would ring, without fail, and always interrupt my favorite cartoon show. I dragged my young body down the stairs and opened the front door. The elderly woman, our neighbor, beamed at me. She held a large tray of freshly baked treats in her fragile arms. Always filling my head with rustic banter, I listened to her speak, nodding with false interest. Typically we chatted for half an hour, then, with an enormous smile, she turned away and shuffled back home. Welcoming her departure, I stuffed my mouth with a pecan sandy and raced back upstairs.Beauty3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her husband passed away in his sleep one Friday night. She called my mother the next afternoon to let her know of the man's death and also to apologize for missing our Saturday morning ritual. Sunday evening, I heard a gentle tapping on the door. I peeked out the window and saw her standing
Why I Am HappyThe boy sitting on the park bench had eyes like sandpaper melancholy.Why I Am Happy4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I think I noticed because I am a poet. I don't think anyone else but a poet could look at his eyes and think, "sandpaper melancholy." But they were that color. A fair brown. And grainy. I liked them in the way I like bitter baking chocolate -- because it has an interesting flavor, not because it is sweet. Unadulterated chocolate is almost unpalatable.
We like sugary chocolate because it has been changed. Adulterated. Oh.
Could tears clean out the roughness in his eyes?
That is why I am happy. I cry the Sorrow out, since poets are not afraid to do that sort of thing. The hunger of starving artists makes us sensitive.
He seemed like one of the people that can be Happy while Sorrow constantly nags on their heartstrings. Like, "Ha, ha, that film was funny!" but after the film is over there is nothing to distract you so tugtug! you remember being sad. They're always sad, but they can't always remember. He seemed ok
SWS 28 - Modern ReadingBookshelf full - bought e-Reader.SWS 28 - Modern Reading4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
quiet'horricos' was the first word to pass her lips. she wrote long before she could speak and her parents were afraid she was mute. they didn't care that at a young age she was able to write- simply that their child was different; wrong. after she spoke her first word they inquired to what it meant. she looked at them with wonder and a sadness not to be felt by such a young little soul and did not say a word. they got angry at her and stormed off, spewing hurtful words that meant little to her. after she spoke her first word she did not speak again for a long time.quiet4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
'horricos' was the only word she spoke at her fathers funeral. she was now in her teens and the fact that she never spoke put people off more than before. as a little girl her parents brushed it off as a phase to all their friends. brushing her off. however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that she was different; wrong. her writing was now polished and eloquent and her teachers wondered how it was possibl
Eight ThingsI want you to whisper to me softly of rain drops and window panes and tell me how you lived a thousand lives before. Speak to me in riddles and speak to me in tongues, speak to me of poetry and stories around the world, but mostly just speak to me because I love the sound of your voice.Eight Things4 years ago in Letters More Like This
I want you to listen to my butterfly words, soft and hesitant and fluttering on the edge of my lips. I want you to listen, really listen, and try to understand. There are subtleties and lies riddled through every word, and I'm begging you to please, please, figure me out.
I want you to squeeze my hand, when I am afraid of the dark and when I am sobbing from the not-so-light, hold me close and comfort me and let me know that you are there. Press me close and bring me home. I want you to lie, tell me it will all be okay, darling, you're okay.
I want you to take me to see bright colors and twisting images, to feel wind sharp against my cheeks and to smile against candid tourist hot spots. Interest me, intr
And So Ii.And So I4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I wrote our love story on the Internet for the world to read. The bored teenagers with their witty usernames commented on every sappy blog post, wishing me luck and cuddles through a combination of punctuation marks and letters that was supposed to resemble a face.
And it was glorious.
I reveled in you like my dog reveled in the snow that sometimes fell at the beginning of January excited, but too small. And so I sank.
Come to think of it, I never particularly liked snow. It makes the world cold and is only pretty until people mess it up. Plus, the snow that we get around here is never more than slush, and the only reason to cancel school is the black ice on the roads.
And, come to think of it, I never really needed you.
Who are you? I suppose I'll never know. I do not even think that I want to. I never even knew you back then you were a fantasy, something my disillusioned teenage mind conjured up from a tangle of hormones and a misplaced compliment.
All I knew was
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 Shop4 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
Coffee-Stained LetterDear Stranger,Coffee-Stained Letter4 years ago in Letters More Like This
You don't know me. And I don't know you. Maybe it's better that way. But then again, maybe we would be happier if we did know each other.
Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, with the sunlight streaming in the window, writing this letter for you. Hopefully I'll finish it by tonight, so that tomorrow I can take it to the coffee shop on the corner and drop it on the floor, or in your lap, or maybe in the lap of the person next to you so they can give it to you...because they don't seem like the type to read it, so they'll obviously just pass it on.
I like music - except terrible rap. And I love the written word more than most, it baffles some of my friends sometimes. I wonder, do you like to read? I have the tiniest tattoo I've ever seen, it's a tiny fairy on my ankle, but you can't see her unless you're looking for her and know where to look...like a real fairy, they're good at hiding too you know. I saw a fairy once. She was hiding behind the strawberries in my garden. I t
Take Me For a RideDarling:Take Me For a Ride4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Take me for a ride. Let me sit in your passenger seat, your partner in crime. Give me control of the radio, and let me find something we both can tolerate; or else something we both hate, and can laugh at, blasting it while we go. Let me be your navigator, getting us lost in the middle of nowhere. We can fight and yell and blame each other before we forgive and take it all as the grand adventure it's supposed to be. Let me get up to crazy shenanigans, making faces and distracting you. We'll be causing all sorts of trouble in the name of fun. And when it gets dark, let me sleep in the passenger seat, in my slumber entrusting you with my safety. Let me feed you food while you drive; holding your burger and soda while you keep your hands on the wheel and eyes on the roads ahead.
And when the ride is over dear heart, do to me as others have done. Push the pedal till we're going over a hundred kilometres an hour. Without warning push open that passenger side door, unbuckle my belt,
My six-word memoirBorn in a snowstorm. Still cold.My six-word memoir4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.Unattainable3 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
butterflieshe thought he was in love with her on a bright september day when the leaves were as red as her hair; every time he looked at them his heart stuttered, and his mouth followed suit.butterflies5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
he was sure he was in love with her the first time he went to her house. she showed him her impressive collection of comic books. then she showed him her even more impressive collection of vintage records. then she smiled, and he forgot how to breathe.
he was almost positive he was in love with her the first time they kissed. her eyes were the color of spring and her lips tasted like sunshine and she giggled when their noses squished against each other.
he wondered whether he was really in love with her the night he proposed. she had laughed and cried and now she was snoring next to him, and he was trying to count the freckles on her nose. when he looked at the ring on her finger his heart started racing.
he knew he wasn't in love with her the day he said 'i do'. she looked too beautiful to be human, and he
FFM 7I don't approve of your new lifestyle. I know they say couples need separate interests, but you like opera and I like pop - that's enough. I know you're a strong, independent woman. I don't even object to the serial killing, really; just the vital organs in Tupperware containers in the fridge. It's not hygenic.FFM 74 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
KeystrokeThe keys feel nice under my fingers, soft and indented from manufacturing supplies and my own abuse. I like to type moreso than writing with a pencil or pen. It brings me comfort to spill words onto a nonexistent page and be able to erase them just as easily. No eraser shavings or crumpled paper to serve as evidence of my musings. The keys are like home. They call to me even when I have nothing to say. I'll spend hours typing nonsense logic into a word processor only to delete it because I didn't really want the words so much as I wanted the comfort. It's like holding my father's hand or leaning on my mother's shoulder as she wraps me in her embrace.Keystroke4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Their thin constructs are so fragile under my deft pads, and the feel of the push and give as I press on them brings life to the inanimate things. Each one is separate, an individual with a personality all their own.
J and F are my homing beacons when I rest my hands on the keyboard; their indents merely physical attributes so that
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.Teacup Friends2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Inside we mourned, but outside we laughed about how silly this all was. As if the way he wore his hair determined his newfound spite. As if the pea coat was a rite of passage, a ticket to better things.
But then Breakfast Blend, Peppermint, and Earl Grey followed, sweeping locks of hair beneath the rug and buttoning four years inside their pea coats. (It
Two Pennies and a DimeTwo pennies and a dime sit at the bottom of the wishing well. The well was an ordinary well, until the pair decided this should not be so.Two Pennies and a Dime6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She declared that she had never visited a wishing well and that logic insisted all unclaimed wells were to become wishing wells, and he was inclined to agree. It was decided that only very important wishes should be wished at the well, lest the power of the wishing well be drained (for who knows how much power a previously unclaimed well holds?).
They went about their chores, homework, and other such experiences, and never once forgot about the wishing well. It was a full year, to the day-and-a-half, before the first wish was thrown into the well, and he was informed that he must stand at least twenty-three feet away while she made the wish, because if anyone but the well heard the wish go in, it might never be granted. The same secretive process occurred six-and-three-quarters years later, and he stood quietly behin
The Hour-What would you do if you only had an hour to live?The Hour3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
-You heard me.
-Well... I guess I'd call everyone I love and tell them how much I care. Then, I'd... I'd sit down and spend whatever was left with you.
-How sweet. But really, what would you do?
-First, we'd have amazing sex. Then, we'd have mind-blowing sex. Then we'd have sex that showed us that there really is a god. After that, in whatever time I had left before the end, I'd post a Facebook status telling everyone how much I love them.
-That's a bit more honest. Now, what if after this hour was up, you just went back to the beginning of it like nothing had happened, but you were the only one who remembered?
-Okay... now you've lost me.
-You have one hour. After that hour, everything goes dark, and next thing you know you're back here, having this conversation with me all over again. But I don't remember, only you do.
-Like... in Groundhog Day?
-Yeah. Like in Groundhog Day.
-I guess I'd... hm. I'd do all the thi