TrainThe walls have faces.Train in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
They are blank faces; they are muddled and aged, wholly expressionless. They reflect their emptiness back into our eyes, scarring us.
They are alarmingly clear. It is alarmingly bright in here.
The light shudders out in dots and dashes from the windows, the windows that reveal nothing. The light scatters and bounces off the walls. Here, then there.
And now it is dark. The shadows claw their way up the faces in the walls, revealing a twisted countenance, a new vacancy.
The lights are shining once again.
They are spotlights, glaring down from above and behind and everywhere. It hurts. I can hardly see the walls in their astonishing sheen. I can hardly see the ghastly contortions amassing on my fellow passengers' faces.
The dark smothers us, mercilessly.
I shut my eyes. I can feel the wheels reverberating beneath us. It is undeniably a phantom sensation. We are still.
An abrupt and miniscule sound comes to my attention, and I open my eyes. A silhouetted man stands be
SlippingWhat happens if I go mad?Slipping in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I do ordinary things. I type essays on steadily crowding Word documents. I visit friends' houses, wait until they leave the room, and then down a glass of vodka--pour myself another glass while they're away. I pet my cat. I watch TV and surf Wikipedia. I say hello to people on the street and thank clerks when they give me my bags and blush when I visit the gynecologist and apologize when I bump into people.
But at the same time, I don't know if I'm sane. Am I the appropriate person to gauge my sanity? Perhaps there has to be a second party, a person to examine me and bop me on the nose and tell me it's all right, there's nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong with me.
Or someone who smiles and then frowns and drifts into uncertainty, tilting their head and furrowing their brow and saying, "Perhaps you should visit me again tomorrow...."
I don't want there to be a second party.
If I lose my mind, will they let me still do my ordinary things? My pleasant things. M
MothI'm caught up in the funnyMoth in Free Verse More Like This
accent, and the rugged
A smile wide and
White, straight teeth,
Illuminated dully in the
School is dull.
And yet, again, I find myself
Frowning, in something like
embarrassment at the
glare of your green eyes
on me, your face
too close for comfort,
There is something like
In your eyes, taunting
subtly, as you laugh
Such charm is
Enough to draw the
Am I a moth?
I hope not.
Confessions"What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room," she'll say, she said, and we don't know what it makes us.Confessions in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Does it make us monsters?
And even when we leave the room, the words are bottled up inside, screwed shut with rotting corks. Secretly, we're quarantined, we're locked away inside glass houses. And even if they cup their hands and see us there, our eyes will never yellow and our skin will never crack. They'll never be like us.
We've drifted out to sea and washed up all alone, bleeding out our venom into the roiling waters. It swallows our confessions, tight-lipped and smiling, the brackish taste of hollowed hearts sinking in our throats, stirring in our stomachs. No matter how hard we scream or how many fires we set, the ships will never stop and the planes will never land. The world will never peer in and see how awfully our corpses rot and how this facsimile of life is warped by glass, warped by the raging sea.
Her words, dark and haunting, linger in the hushed cascade of sand be
CigarsSometimes I type out all the thingsCigars in Free Verse More Like This
I've dealt with through the day;
I type them in a neat white box
And to myself, I say:
"I suppose this is all too depressing
For the masses;
I suppose I'd better leave it be,
For the masses...."
And then my thoughts will bounce, collide,
With memories fringing the outskirts
Of my nightmares.
Frothing masses, spinning,
Masses of maggots, wriggling
in the rotten, putrid flesh--
And as the wind blares through the open windows
Of the car, I smell the smoke, like cigars--
I see my father's face beneath my eyelids, and I blink
And breathe deeper, deeper,
Until I gag and realize all I smell is gasoline.
And it stinks.
And then I see the honey-eyes
Of darling friends whom I despise,
And a crushing disappointment rises, tidal,
Drowning out each ragged breath--
And something hollow beats within,
Hollowed by the wolves and tigers
Dressed in fraying sheepskin....
And it aches, most terribly--
How to Let Go"How deep is a lakeHow to Let Go in Free Verse More Like This
If it goes on forever?"
You ask me as
We tire swing over
Our feet painting the waters
A crisscross of ripples,
Too afraid to let go,
Release our hold and dive
For fear of never resurfacing.
I do not know
And I wish to never
The answer to such questions,
So I keep quiet
And speculate as
You loosen your grip
And fall back,
Letting the depthless
Catch your fall
To find out for