Shape is a thing that comes to you, after you have grown.

Breasts.

Waist.

Arms.

Butt.

It's a struggle between feeling fit and feeling smart, isn't it? This is the struggle. The struggle to take shape.

Job.

House.

Money.

Love (but not in a way that denotes overindulgence).

These are the sacrifices we make between sheer bliss and sweet control. You don't blame me?

You shouldn't.

You could use a little direction, said Junie to Sam.

They were sitting cross-legged in the wood chips on the playground. Junie was wearing a polka-dotted skirt, and she spread it over her knees, aware that her Hanes-covered little bottom was unprotected from the dirt.

It was something she heard once, from mother.

Sam said nothing. He was dumping wood chips into his lap with his fists, wanting it all. Making a pond and filling it up.

Sure, said Sam, through his spitty little teeth. He pointed to the South.

Don't you see?

He jumped, I jumped. She sto

In the beginning, he tasted like rainwater: salty. Dried sweat around the rim of his mouth, a taste that clung to his mustache bristles like saltwater taffy.

In the beginning, he was rainwater, and I was a pool. Splashes hit the bottom. He said, you are a the ruin of mankind, rising to the tops of the trees. He said, you make me greedy to reach your destination like a home.

In the end, he tasted like a mountain top. Stretching high above the clouds to breathe a privileged cold. And I was a seed that could not grown on...

In the beginning, he tasted like rainwater: salty. Dried sweat around the rim of his mouth, a taste that clung to his mustache bristles like saltwater taffy.

In the beginning, he was rainwater, and I was a pool. Splashes hit the bottom. He said, you are a the ruin of mankind, rising to the tops of the trees. He said, you make me greedy to reach your destination like a home.

In the end, he tasted like a mountain top. Stretching high above the clouds to breathe a privileged cold. And I was a seed that could not grown on...

He didn't want to fuck her when he met her. That would have been too easy.

She had this way of pausing at the end of her sentences and looking up at him, teeth together, but lips apart. Her lips were plump, but small. Her eyes were hooded. Her hair was falling down from the top of her head.

She wanted him to fuck her. But he didn't really want to. It seemed to be something that she expected from him, and he wasn't one to do what was expected of him.

That fact that she didn't know he didn't...

When I see these flowers, and this man standing here (that's me, by the way), and I see all the men with guns walking behind me, I'm supposed to say that the flowers remind me of a lady. I'm supposed to taste the dust in my mouth, remember my comrades who gave their lives, understand the difference between pride and loyalty, duty and identity.

Mostly, I remember not knowing where I stood with any of these things; thinking that this was the process to figuring it out.

We're all figuring it out, aren't we? To know where you stand is...

When I see these flowers, and this man standing here (that's me, by the way), and I see all the men with guns walking behind me, I'm supposed to say that the flowers remind me of a lady. I'm supposed to taste the dust in my mouth, remember my comrades who gave their lives, understand the difference between pride and loyalty, duty and identity.

Mostly, I remember not knowing where I stood with any of these things; thinking that this was the process to figuring it out.

We're all figuring it out, aren't we? To know where you stand is...

Kelsey had always hated Kent. Kent was a skinny, chaste, and weak man. His skin was light and ashy, his hair not blonde but not quite brown. His teeth could have been more white. She hated the way he talked, all whispery. His voice, unreliable. His feelings, pushing up and making this more of a life.

Kelsey looked in the mirror and hated Kent so much it hurt. She hated him with sorrow. She hated him with Rage.

She decided to kill him.

She took a knife in her left hand.

She held out Kent's right hand, as if showing...

You can hide me here, in my pretty things. I will not stir to fight the malaise.

However did you want me, strong? To have your cake and eat it, too?

I was just dreaming of the outside world, of a dream outside this dream. Of colors that are vivid and real. Of people you can reach out and touch. Of rain that falls onto your skin. Of dirt that makes you truly dirty.

And you, you were just telling me stories. Stories of the people you saved during your travels. How you shared a space with a teenage mother...

Marie Antoinette sat in the tub, eating chocolate truffles and drinking champagne. Her ruffled leggings lay in a heap on the floor. She thought as she looked out the window that she was ever the perfect Mademoiselle. She gazed out onto the misty countryside, daydreaming. Although, what could she dream about? She was living her dream. She took another bite of chocolate and smiled.

Just then, her little sister's pink range rover came trundling into the driveway, reminding her that it was 2015 and she was not in France. She would not marry her prince, because princes don't exist nowadays....