your warmthyou stood in the doorway, damp orange light falling across your skin, black hoodie falling from your shoulders gently, hair a mess - and you were all but perfect. you stood, leaning against the door frame a little too drunk, and smiled at me. it was that kind of smile that i knew meant more than it should have, the one i have seen too many times since - the kind of smile that meant something. i'd like to tell myself it meant the world - that when, for the first time in a year, our eyes met and you told me something that wasn't a lie - the stars had aligned or the universe corrected itself - but i know that's not true.your warmth in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we kissed that night, the alley way beside your house. you ran your hand along my legs, along my ripped tights, and i could feel your heartbeat under the sleeve of the shirt i had always loved. you stared at me, face relaxed, and told me that you had wanted that for a year.
sometimes, i think i have too.
my heart didn't explode though, and my knees didn't shudder undernea
strange peoplethere is man i see sometimes that tells me he loves me.strange people in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
he wears a dress and has bare feet, sparkly nails and paint in his hair. when he laughs and he smiles and looks me right in the eye, and i call him miss because that's what he wants, i know it is only because he is not right -
but sometimes it makes me think, if he loves the whole world and is happier than the rest of us, then what is wrong?
there's a old man with a white beard to his stomach, who can't speak right and buys pink children bikes from the op shop with his change.
he has his free cappuccino with eleven sugars and lots of chocolate, tells me every day that he has a pretty girlfriend. he doesn't have a house and his legs are thinner than my arms, but when he spins his coffee lid through the air he claps and jumps like a child and sometimes he gets so happy he cries.
and i wish sometimes that i could be happy that way -
to love the things that no one else does, in a way that other people don't understand.
and you kno
introductionAlex has come to terms with the fact that his father is going to die soon. It hurts, but what can he do? Things like this happen. Alex believes that it won't be a natural death. He honestly believes his father will kill himself sooner or later. He can see it in his eyes, in the muffled sobs he hears when he calls.introduction in Short Stories More Like This
Sometimes Alex wishes he could ask his dad why he left. He was always told it was so he could get over his drinking problem, but as far as Alex can see, it's just made it worse. His father told him once that it was because he couldn't handle the cold of Melbourne winter, but he had done it for the past thirty seven years, why was it so much of a problem now? Sometimes he sits in his room and goes over all of the excuses he's heard. He wonders how his mother believes he cant swallow that bullshit.
His father doesn't usually call often; it depends on how he's feeling. The more often he calls, the more reassurance he needs that he still exists and that the world isn't
wish upon a starthe air is always cold this time of year, you once told me as we lay in bed, warm, watching the last few seconds of christmas eve fall away. you whispered merry christmas in my ear, ran your hand along the the valley of my waist and told me that you had the best christmas present ever. i didn't need to ask what it was, because i already knew.wish upon a star in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
'this time of year, miracles come true,' i could tell you were murmuring through a smile into my shoulder 'if you just close your eyes and wish upon a star hard enough.'
giggling, i closed my eyes and wished that i would wake up next to you. when you asked me what i wished for, i turned to face you, and through a succession of small kisses i whispered that i couldn't tell you, or it wouldn't come true.
god, we always thought we were so young.
you know, i have closed my eyes every year since then, and wished for the same thing. this year though, i lay in my double bed alone, sheets littered with cigarette burns and little pieces of wrapping paper.
isn't it a bit sadliving within a sanctuary, my arteries grow widerisn't it a bit sad in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
bones thicker and eyes wider - yet i am weaker
wood beneath my fingers, cracked and grey feels
as though it is not there at all, memories fade
into dust that settles and everything that was
becomes what it wasn't, everything that wasn't
is what was -
i clean so i don't think, and i write so that i do
ghost of anxiety past creeps up, awoken - alive
fingers grip the bare skin of backs, vision blurred
and words slurred, together we embody that which
makes us sick -
but we are already sick; off passion and love and
i am sick of your glances and lack of words and
my need to just to hold you, or him, her or anyone;
it has been so long since i have been held in arms
that were not water or wine -
i date things in case i die and people decide to
love me because isn't that what happens - when you
die people realise how great you were but it's too
late because you're already gone, so they read you
but it's okay because i hate everyone an
the fall of winterthere is a full moon, haunted, hanging just above the clouds. kind of the like the pictures we used to draw when we were young; back when we all thought we were artists. at this time of night, i can't help but wonder if its the same face of the moon that watched you left.the fall of winter in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
but fuck, we're not artists any more are we?
and this full moon - it hangs over us.
it watches with wise eyes the fragility of your heart in my cupped hands, and it waits. and with weak shoulders, i watch too. time and time again in the dead of the night i watch the crashing of the white-tipped ocean over our naked bodies, clasped tightly together, and every night i wait.
but i know we do not resurface.
and, oh the moon. it waits, waits, waits.
while deep on the ocean's floor, light filtering through the near-black water down onto our faces, i watch you and you watch me. and we know that we failed.
but my dreams are not meaningful things to you, because my words have never moved you like music; never awed you like p
a story about a broken heartyou called the other day, just to talk.a story about a broken heart in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you were talking about your physics teacher, or something like that,
but all i could hear was 'i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry'
i'm sorry for hugging you so tightly when i last left,
and i'm sorry for taking your heart with me.
i'm sorry that my voice still sounds the same -
the same voice i would send you to sleep with at night.
i'm sorry i can't look away when you talk,
because i can't let go.
i am sorry for telling you lies,
even if i meant them at the time.
i am sorry that we have nothing in common anymore,
and that i can't make you laugh.
and you were talking about your physics teacher, or something like that,
and i was crying.
i don't think i can forgive you.
similar to an earthquakethere are some things that are similar to an earthquake;similar to an earthquake in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
roaring thunder in the dead of the night, rattling window panes as you lay down to sleep, the roar of your next door neighbors car in the early morning, and the planes, metal skeletons in the sky flying above you,
and when my eyes meet yours.
there are some things, too, that are similar to this love;
mum's hot chocolate on winter nights, not moving from bed on the first day of the holidays, the last warm day in autumn, the cool change in the summer heat, finishing work early on a busy day, knowing you've accomplished something, and the feel of cashmere on neglected skin,
but somehow, i think i'd give it all up for you.
you are comfort, you are warmth, you are tranquility,
you are my peace.
all of the loveThere is nothing I can give you that you have not already had, no emotions I can explain that you will have not already felt. Yet, comforted by the quiet hum of cicadas, the slow ballet of the clouds that I watch through my window tonight, I can think of nothing else. I'm sure, too, that you will understand that words written, thought out and laced together so precisely only to convey my gratitude, are words that are meant from the very deepest place in my heart.all of the love in Letters More Like This
This place, long ago, felt as though it was sinking away into the yellow and red shades of dusk; chasing the horizon, following the seas until they fade like old film in search of a change. I was cold, shattered by memories and stained with the blood of my own heart, knew only my selfish desires for something unattainable. I was everything that I hated in a person; surrounded by the need only for silence and isolation, their definitions ringing so true as they rolled from my tongue night after night, bitter and neglectful. Hel
when it rains - collabi thought of you the other day with paper cuts on your fingers. it doesn't make much sense, but it made me feel like you were made of more than sunlight streaming in through broken windows. it made me feel like you were human, and my irregular heartbeat was consistent in your world.when it rains - collab in Teen More Like This
when i thought of you, you were wishing on fallen daises and writing letters to the wind. you always loved wind, i remember. i dont like the wind now, it always reminds me of the way it would shake our window panes at night and i would crawl up next to you and fall asleep on your shoulder.
i felt safe with my head tucked beneath yours and you used to run your hand through my hair and call me special. when you were gone i'd sit in front of the mirror for hours, analyzing the bone structure of my face or the setting of my nose. i would try and find that something that separated me from the pulled out weeds that littered the steps on your front porch, but no matter what angle i used i always seemed dispo
1 ciggerate fori distaste the stench1 ciggerate for in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
of overspread nicotine,
and if i am able to i would
drain your misery with a towel
and ingest the intoxication
fluently soothing inside your system.
maybe life is,maybe, just maybemaybe life is, in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
life is just some fucked
up dream you're having
until you wake up in
you're my starhome is feeling comfort&feelingease. it's a bittersweet sunshine painted canvas, and whenever i'm home, you greet me with your porcelain smile. i found home in your arms and we're bathing in warm sunlight percolating through transparencies.you're my star in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
the window has a connection with the outside world because it feels like the sun and every other planet are looking through narrow keyholes and they're omnipresent. i realized you'd blend flawlessly with the night because everyone would know you're the brightest star that crashed onto the earth.
and i'm so glad you crashed upon me.
on my way to heaventhe pills are kicking in and,on my way to heaven in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
i'm tightrope walking on paper thin pavements in a buttermilk sky and i believe i'm on my way to heaven for the very first time. but the clouds suddenly become billows and hell's flames reaches me. burning the thread i'm walking upon and letting me fallfallfall dead-eye in nagging memories.
love lettersit's the day of our anniversary andlove letters in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
i'm reading old love letters and i suddenly miss the sweet scent of daisy perfume curling under my nostrils. i suddenly began waking up every summer morning because you always left for work and you wouldn't ever leave without kissing me goodbye. i'm reading every sentence over and over again while wondering why God sent the only person i loved towards a different direction.
i hated him first.when I was 13, a boy leaned over his desk and asked what was on my wrist, and i showed him, because they were just words. that was when i still wrote on my arms in blue ink; i needed some kind of reminder (though it's hard to say what for). his eyes flickered over my boney arms, and he pushed himself back to his seat and grinned-- then laughed.i hated him first. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
"good," he said, "i thought you were cutting yourself or some shit."
i laughed, too, and while i laughed, something in me changed. i hated him. i hated him and his blonde hair and scarless skin and i hated the way that his teeth looked and i hated him. and while i smiled i started to hate myself, too, because i realized how ugly this made me.
but i still laughed.
i laughed because, yes, i was cutting myself, but i laughed because he was ugly, too. i laughed because i was the best actor in the world, and the best liar, too; i never had to lie and say i was fine, because nobody ever asked me if i were.
in that moment, we w
1920.Minute beads of sweat rolled down my neck like ladybugs. The air was hot and nearly putrid, sitting on my tongue like a dead weight. Outside, the city was alive with the joy and promise of summer, contained in the shrill voices of children playing on the streets. Humidity stuck to my skin-- my hair was wild.1920. in Short Stories More Like This
slice of god's sky. i think the only time he ever really saw the stars was the night i left him.slice of god's sky. in Short Stories More Like This
we went and laid in the park near my house, with the grass' damp kisses working its' way through our thin clothes; neither of us were ready for autumn. i don't think we ever will be.
his mood swung like a pendulum, going from oh so i get it, you never fucking loved me to wait, babe, we can work this out in a matter of seconds. i still feel his works slick on my summer-made skin. the air was so dark and so heavy that i felt like we were being showered by bits of the atmosphere as we laid side by side, words having spilled from our lips in ugly, misshapen piles.
it's not that i didn't mean what i said, because i did. in a few hours, i wouldn't mean it, but right then, with the sky hovering just above my eyelids, i meant ever single thing.
i meant to call him an asshole.
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that.s. in Short Stories More Like This
People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fir
Moonshine(r)s The moon looked down on the people of northern Georgia almost like the state is God; its reflection gave the people hope. However, some people in this state believed that the moon was something ordinary and malleable; those people were Luna South and Boot-Shine Bill. Most people didn’t believe this was true, but the ones that did offered a large sum of money ($500) for whoever fishes out the moon. In order to give the people of Georgia proof of their theory, they had to fish it out of the first body of water in sight.Moonshine(r)s in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
One night Boot-Shine Bill was bootlegging liquor that he obtained from his partner, Luna South, and the sheriff tried catch Bill. Alas, it was no use, so Bill’s face ended up on papers throughout the state with the caption: “Wanted Dead or Alive. Reward is $50.” Luna South and Boot-Shine Bill firmly believed that if they were to find the moon, then this problem would go away. So, they hastily decided that that night would be the night they sc
this is not my cardiganGod, he is smiling at the waitress with big eyes as she brings him his dinner. i can see the gnarls of his hands from a dozen feet away, his chair pulled close to the wooden table. i watch him reveal his little teeth, presumably polydented dentures. he is wearing a yellow sweater, a cardigan with elbow patches.this is not my cardigan in Biography & Memoir More Like This
the chair across from him is empty and in the same grain pattern as the table with his towering pile of supper. my brother asks if i know why he is alone and i tell him to keep silent. his wife died, he told me, with a smile. the old man turns his eyes to his meal and slowly begins to eat.
God, please forgive me for not sitting with him; forgive me for not telling him i am so sorry and i love him; please forgive me for not crying into his sweater or being enough
epiphany # 244: we will find this man again someday, and show him love still exists at the bottom of our hearts and a teacup.
incendiaryit was the city -- you know, a self-contained organism, a microcosm of reality in which we all take part. it's like a play, with our very orchestrated roles rehearsed perfectly until we can pull them off as smooth as ice.incendiary in Short Stories More Like This
it doesn't matter which city, because really, they're all the same -- paris, milan, barcelona...lawrence, pittsburgh, atlanta.
what matters is only that we were in the city. i was myself, playing the role of a love-struck jeweler, praying i could find just the right gem to put on my lover's finger someday, and she was herself, playing the role of sara.
sara, my love; sara, my heart; sara, the snow beneath my feet, the ice begging for me to slip
but still, we were here. glimpses of this city swallow my hunger -- i might never eat again if this were my home, the way it filled me up. but the moment i broke eye contact with this entity, this city with its glittering skyline, i felt the hollows in me ache again.
it felt rig
man at the cafehe's sitting there at the cafeman at the cafe in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
sandwich on thick white bread
and straggling beansprouts
and i hate the look in his eye.
he is by himself
so he's thinking
and his hat is tilted over his face
so he's in shadow
and he won't look up
from his sandwich
so i am actively watching him.
i know he is sad.
i know he is waiting for a girl
to show up,
or maybe he's just thinking of one,
maybe he's just wishing
she were here
because when she's not,
maybe he's never seen her,
but his heart knows she's out there
and his soul can't sleep
until he's found her.
maybe he thinks he knows her,
and maybe she's an ocean away.
maybe he thinks the longer
he stares at the dangling beansprouts,
the sooner she can be
by his side.
and because maybe he knows her,
he won't look for anyone else
and that hat tipped low over his brow
keeps it so his eyes are really
only for her.
nonexistent people"something's wrong."nonexistent people in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"what makes you say that?"
"your shirt is white."
"so, it's just white. there's nothing on it- no dirt, no ink, no blood."
"i guess you're right."
"then what's wrong?"
"i don't remember how to speak."
"you're talking right now."
"yeah. i'm running my mouth but i'm saying nothing. i'm thinking all these things, and can't say them. i'm sitting straight but everything's angled and i think i'm falling when i'm only standing still."
"i think you said that very well."
"then maybe i forgot how to see."
"maybe. i'm missing something. like it's on the tip of my nose but i won't cross my eyes to see it. "
"cross your eyes."
"i don't want my eyes to get stuck."
"look at me."
"what do you see?"
"your eyes are sad. you have a crooked mouth. your hands never touch flatly on your thighs. you look wrong, but beautiful. oh- sorry. i shouldn't say that."
"i don't think you're blind."
"i don't know. maybe i have fo
How to be Found in Eleven Simple Steps1. Understand that you must be willing to give up the fragile solitary universe you created from the instructions given on page three.How to be Found in Eleven Simple Steps in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. Spend more time building from the ground up. It will take longer, but you'll like the result.
3. Rest when you are weary and remember the times when you were strong, hear that strength in every word that you speak.
4. Keep in mind that you are human, and that survival is weighed against life more heavily. You are survival. Life is your goal. If you disagree, move to step 5. If you agree, skip to step 6.
5. Return to 4 and repeat until you believe.
6. Live not in fear of doing something you'll regret, but in order that you won't regret not having done something.
7. Leave for home and release the heartache. It is not your home now. You are a wandering spirit.
8. Taste the different air in every footstep, weigh the light that feeds your shadow, and take comfort in your solitary walk...
9. See the countless colored souls that walk about, and how eac
This Darling ImageDear,This Darling Image in Letters More Like This
I've spent the past three days trying to think of what to give you while pacing back and forth across well worn paths of intricate weaves in the carpet. I had all sorts of terrible ideas, and that was frustrating till I thought about how you would, without hesitation of a question accept each one, as the worst of my apologies have always become legitimate wishes once they reach you.
Then, when the rain stopped and I pulled the curtain back to peek out of the window, I saw teardrops (yes, teardrops from the sky) on a rose. It was poetry, and you. It was poetry and like the most aptly spoken, delicate and fragile words, you are poetry. There's only one thing of any worth that I can give to you. So now I give you every word I've ever known, you deserve these words so that they tell your story and introduce the sound of you to the universe. You've given me hope, so let me give you the ability to travel endless miles of open air and stimulate the h
I Wish I'd Said:I owe you nothing but the truth.I Wish I'd Said: in Letters More Like This
It's become obvious to me that you no longer posses the ability to exist entirely within the reality of the world I live in, nor the courtesy to stay within the stale grey walls of your pathetic fantasy. It should come as no surprise though, I've known for a long time that there is not enough space on this plane for the both of us.
This is a farewell: if and when we meet again, it will not be under such unmalleable circumstances, where neither of us can escape our self-made prisons. I only hope that at some point along the road to that place you will take the opportunity to step out of the purgatory you've spent years of your energy and life to build, and experience for a moment the fear and bliss of allowing yourself to feel.
please let me get what i want.For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.please let me get what i want. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you're standing face to face and in one swift breath, you remember it all.
You remember everything.
The sky is always biggest right before it rains. That's how I learned to always couple disappointment with expectations since no matter how beautiful something seems, a disaster is always right on the horizon.
The waves are crashing quickly on the shoreli
our sleeping patterns collide.I wake up tired.our sleeping patterns collide. in General Fiction More Like This
I wake up tired and it's afternoon again.
I wake up tired and I am alone.
It's like every night i fall asleep with you on my mind, and I quickly sort through my thoughts leaving the prettiest ones on top so I can try them on in the morning. So everyday, I wake up and try on being in love with you. Except every morning, it's three inches too big or a centimeter and a half too small or it's brushing my kneecaps like it's too long. But I wear it anyways, since I'm used to being a shade left of ordinary or two steps past crazy. I'm used to wearing love and I'm used to you.
I'm used to falling asleep next to you and waking up alone.
You call me.
You call me adorable and I like it.
You call me your own and it feels like a fairytale.
We spend the weekends curled up on iced lakes like mirrors, scratching our stories into their frozen surfaces, and you write about adventures you'll never have and places you'll never go with a girl I wish I could always be. And I write about
gravitational collapseI remember being seven years old, sitting at our scratched kitchen table and being able to see the moon through the reflective glass of the window over the sink. And I remember being terrified, because here I was sitting in same place and already the whole world had shifted and moved and rotated and spun and tilted and hurled through space at a rate so quick I could never comprehend it. To me, this was the sort of mystery you didn't try to solve.gravitational collapse in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I remember being curled up against the solid frame of your body with your right hand claimed in between both of mine. Our pale skin blending together as I traced constellations on your palms. You later told me that you thought it was because I loved the stars more than anything closer to home. But I tried to explain that an ever expanding universe scared me because I couldn't figure out where exactly it was spilling into, and how it most certainly seemed to be making a whole lot of something out of nothing, so instead I started making my own s
MemoriesEverything you've been told is a lie. The Earth does not exist. There is no such thing as humans. They just want to control you. Who are they? I have no clue. If there are no humans, then what are you? You're thoughts. Memories. Everything you think was real is just a fabricated memory. You are a build up of memories from various generations; with each new generation, there is another part added.Memories in Short Stories More Like This
Why is it like this? Once again, I do not have the answer. They are the only ones with minds of their own. They are not human, nor animal, nor memory; they are nothing, so hence I don't know who they are. How do I know this? Am I a mistaken memory perhaps? No, I'm one of them
You are part of the millionth generation here, which is nowhere, so you have one million interlocking memories that replay over and over again. That is, until you die of course. Well, you don't exactly die, you're "forgotten", as all memories are. That is the life cycle of a memory. Nothing is reality and nothing is imagi
Nightmares Chapter oneNightmares Chapter one in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"Steph! Hey, Steph!" I heard a voice hiss in my ear as I slowly blinked my eyes open.
"Waah ?" I mumbled through a long yawn.
"You fell asleep in class again. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't been caught yet," I looked over at Aaron who was glaring at me. Every time I got in trouble, he did too. The teachers just hate us.
"Oh," was all I said. I looked away from him and back towards the screen in front of the room. It was immediately apparent to why I fell asleep; we were watching that same boring video we've been seeing since we were in diapers about the Government and how "oh-so-wonderful" it is. Yuck.
On the screen there
Nightmares PrologueNightmares Prologue in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
What would you do if you were told that you were born to die? Would you freak out? Hide? Run away? To be honest, it actually isn't that scary. The scariest part is how you will die. You see, here on my planet, we have a very strict government, and well, they don't exactly appreciate people who have more power than them. Every once in a while, a child is born with odd abilities. We're referred to as Nightmares. These abilities aren't something that you want; they can really suck. At first, you just start seeing weird shapes in the shadows around you. Like most normal children, you'll try to convince yourself that they really aren't there. Unsuccessfully of course. As you grow up with these things around you, constantly paranoid that you're going insane, the shapes will grow and take more of a form. By the time you've reached your teenage years, you'll have a nightite, the creatures born from the shadows, following you around and you'll be identified as a Nightmare. If you manage to hide
The Power of RejectionA chasm opens between the dream of success and the fear of rejection. It can be impassible, the Grand Canyon of risk deterrents. And so many choose to never cross it, deciding it is much better to stay on the dream side than to hazard having hopes dashed against the cavern floor below.The Power of Rejection in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The fear paralyzes. It rockets hearts into throats, becomes a mountain, elicits a high-pitched shriek of terror at the very thought of trying to take on the possibility of rejection. It keeps drawings secreted away in sketchbooks or songs buried five folders deep on a desktop creations labored over and loved but never given the chance to be loved by others. Unaided, unencouraged and unseen, creativity trudges on unchallenged, unbettered and unrewarded. All because safety is better than the dread and anxiety that comes with showing others into our world.
We'd been sitting on completed stories for months, too afraid to send them out. The first time face-to-face with the precipice of potential reject
Chocolate ChaosRandom pastry movement: brownie in motion.Chocolate Chaos in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
encephalitis.she asks, "is it weird to have one day where you really intensely, for no good reason, think of a dead person?"encephalitis. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
the intercom was the one to announce that his body had finally given up. i don't remember what i was wearing that day, or how my hair looked, or what noises fell out of my mouth. death has dulled the sharp edges within me. this is what i do know: some people burst into tears and some people sat frozen and pale and some people simply got up and left the room.
"are you okay?" someone asked me, and i found that i was lying on the floor, though i couldn't understand how i'd gotten there. the overhead lights were buzzing and humming, or maybe it was just my heart. confused, i sat up quickly and let the blood rush to my head in one glorious fell swoop.
"are you okay?" they asked again, and i said yes, yes, i am okay. i am alive. i have to be okay. the linoleum is still cold against my cheek and i can still see i am alive i am okay i am okay i am okay.
but sometimes i wish i had t
the soccer game.the thing is, i needthe soccer game. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
the deer to mean something.
i go to the soccer game and smile
and nod while something furious
inside of me is screaming.
a deer appears while the sun
is setting and it's like a scene
from a movie: green grass and gold rays
that spread out, tingeing our feet
with one last bit of wednesday.
everyone watches the deer and makes
noises of appreciation and i look
around and i think to myself
"okay, this is it, i am happy."
the deer is watching me and i try
to decide if it's a metaphor.
i want the deer to be death, see,
to represent fucking or blacking
out or apathy or loneliness.
someone does something heroic
with a soccer ball and i watch
my hands clap together over and over.
okay, or maybe the deer is supposed
to be happy. maybe the deer
represents attending social
events and sitting with people.
maybe the deer means that
i'm ready to let go.
the girl beside me looks over
and asks if i've written any poems
lately. (that's all she knows of me,
that i write poems and
Thank You, Slater.I used to go to the nearby campus coffee shop in the early evenings, armed with a pen, a blank notebook, and writer's block. The sense of loneliness was unspoken but well accounted for.Thank You, Slater. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I always shared coffee-counterspace with the same boy, who never smiled or talked and who had a penchant for bedhead and argyle sweaters. He liked to lean back on his stool, balancing precariously as he read novels, and I liked to pretend I wasn't watching him watch me. We coexisted in quiet companionship, thrived quietly under fluorescent lighting which sometimes caught his thick-framed glasses.
His novels changed while my notebook remained the same; his dogeared copies of The Sound and the Fury and Animal Farm distracted me as I doodled stars on blank pages, waiting for something that could not be explained.
It was raining. I remember that. His glasses fogged up when he walked in, his tousled black hair dripped water on my elbow.
"Why don't you ever write in your notebook?" he asked, turning to me w