Melodrama"Oh, good morning, Simon."
Simon looked up from the bowl of cereal he was fixing himself and grinned. "Good morning, yourself. Just fixing some breakfast before we head to town—no other food here and I'm half starved."
"Good luck with that," said Holly, regarding the pile of bran flakes that sat inside the bowl. "There's no milk left."
"There's no more milk. Ran out of it last night and I didn't have time to make it to the grocery store."
"But I already poured my cereal!" said Simon with distress.
"That's unfortunate," replied Holly. She then watched with perplexity as her temporary flat-mate set the bowl on the counter, walked over to his cot and collapsed into the sheets. "Simon, what are you doing?" she asked.
Simon threw an arm over his face, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. "All that trouble for nothing," he moaned. "What is this? What is my life?!"
"This is a cruel world." The young man rolled onto his stomach, dragging the covers with him until he
Some Simon/Holly dialogues"We should climb up there—we'd have a fantastic view of the ocean," said Simon, gesturing to the nearly vertical pathway that wound its way up the side of the cliff.Some Simon/Holly dialogues2 years ago in Personal
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"No," she replied with complete and utter finality. "No, absolutely not, that has 'no' written all over it."
"Come on, live a little—have an adventure! Leave your comfort zone!"
"I don't want to have an adventure. I'm content with safe mediocrity, thank you."
"Stop being an asshole, Simon."
"I might be mistaken, but I think that calling a terminally ill person an asshole inside a church might be a sin," he told her.
Holly shrugged. "But didn't the Bible say that telling the truth will set me free?"
"Well, that's life," said Holly flatly.
"Yes, but I don't have the greatest track record at life, do I?" replied Simon. "It's like I missed the memo. Really, I don't get why it's so difficult for me. What is life, anyway? How do you life?"
"Sometimes it just feels like I'm going crazy," said Holly. "
Phone-Call #1: February 18th, 1961"He—Hello?"Phone-Call #1: February 18th, 19612 years ago in Personal
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"Is this Miss Halliburton?"
"Who on earth is calling me at this time of night?"
"Take a guess."
"I—what? Who is this?"
"Wow, you don't even recognize my voice. I'm offended."
"Is this some sort of prank call?"
"After all we went through."
"If you don't tell me who you are and why you're calling, I'm hanging up right now. It is too damn early for this."
"Then I'll just call again. Well, actually, don't hang up, I've only got fifty cents left."
"For God's sake, who the is this?"
"I already told you to guess, Ilex—I thought you were clever."
"Took you long enough."
"Simon, it is two in the morning. What is wrong with you?"
"Well, I've got six pounds of shit building up in my airways, I can't breathe without an oxygen tank and I'm an asshole."
"I already knew that. Now why are you calling me in the middle of the night—and did I hear you say you're at a payphone?"
"Yes, there's one on the bottom floor of the hospital."
"What are you doi
things that hurtit was past midnightthings that hurt2 years ago in Free Verse
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and i was drunk again.
i told myself,
"tonight i will write."
so here i am, the morning after,
looking at pages and pages of
pouring myself another drink.
in the end
i'm still here,
i don't like looking back
and realizing that
i was just
another rebellious kid
under her pillow
realizing all too late that
you were beautiful,
and i gave you away
realizing that, deep down,
even the happiest people are a little sad
realizing that we're always
or too little of
here it is:
irony at its worst.
i feel dead,
but don't bury me yet
i still have things to do.
365 vignettes project(1)365 vignettes project3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes
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I have adopted two soul mantras. I can't tell you what they are. I guess keeping them secret has a secret in itself, one that belongs to the universe rather than to me, but the intentions are mine. If I don't say what they are directly though, then I don't think I am breaking the secret. I visualise a running river, moving clouds, falling petals, growing buds, observing sunrises and sunsets, ducks, cats, wind chimes. I hear in my thoughts rain hitting everything, what that sounds like against tree bark, concrete, a car roof, a wooden verandah.
We are as a fire. The smoke rises and becomes of little consequence. It colours the air, twists into shape like moments, and dissipates. We are not the smoke, we are the fire. The smoke should always fall away, it is no use in holding on to what has already burnt out. We are as the fire.
It is not then. It is not even now. The moment has already passed.
There is no moon out. I cut out a white paper moon and held it to