Pollution is an artist
and poison is a poet
Death is the brightest of colors
Noise is the sweetest song
Pollution won a grant
and poison won a fellowship
We're meeting for drinks downtown
to celebrate their well-deserved
recognition.
Absent. The perfect word to describe the situation.
Paul and Maria Strickland sat at their kitchen table eating breakfast, as they did every day. Forks scraped against plates as they lifted their scrambled eggs to their mouths, chewed, swallowed. All in silence. They'd been married for twenty years, eating in silence together for fifteen. Eating in silence was the only thing they ever did together anymore, except take care of their son, Mark.
The boy watched them from the den, where he'd taken to eating alone as he watched TV, a tray attached to the armrests of his black Quickie...
The tigers snarled at each other as they fought over the prize. Eyes narrowed, they watched for the slightest hesitation, the smallest weakness, in their enemy's eyes and stance. Finally, the larger of the two feinted to the left, then ran right with his booty. Quickly, the other followed as the world waited with baited breath.
Then, it happened. The great tiger leapt away from his pursuer, seeming to soar. The buzzer went off a split second after the ball dropped into the net and the crowd roared as the score changed: 63-59.
"I guess not everything's better in Metter,"...
I had always wanted to win. Something, I dunno; life, a contest, sports day. I craved to see my luminous ego reflected in stainless steel, with others around me cheering me on.
Not today though.
Today, I looked into the trophy, but didn't see my reflection, didn't see the holy glow of my inner glory.
I thought it weird no-one was acknowledging me, but I guess now it makes sense- I lost.
I lost the minute I thought I could achieve anything, the minute I decided to try for once. The moment I begged and would've sold my soul for...
Behind me, the world caved in. There it goes, I thought. There it goes at last. I emptied my pockets and threw my hands over my shoulders. I remember the sun was descending but the moon was so bright the day wouldn't leave. Night whined and nudged but the day wouldn't surrender. You are confused, moon, I yelled over my shoulder. Fade out, lady, I shouted over my other shoulder. Another ending of another world.
Smitty sat on the bench and wondered what he was going to do about his oh-so-embarrassing problem.
Girls noticed right away. Many wouldn't say anything, of course; merely giggle and look down at the offending area. What could he say? What could he do to reduce his... well, to be delicate. his *dilemma*...
His male buddies were usually not so discrete. They'd make a face and comment, but when the problem failed to be resolved - not for hours, but months, and then YEARS,... well, he'd seen every doctor he could, but they all scratched their heads in puzzlement and...
Your blood is the light in the sky and the night is the new blood replacing the old.
That darker blood you receive each day is the sweat of the earth swallowing itself with huge, heavy gulps.
Sure, time is running out, but it always comes running back in.
Time, blood, day, night.
Everything new is old again.
Isn't that the song?
Isn't that a song!
Thick dusk is coming,
whetting the waves
with you,
whetting the waves
with you.
Once upon a time there was little man whom no-one believed. His name was Henry, and he loved to go to parties. But when he said he would go, no-one thought he would turn up. And sometimes he didn't believe himself that he would go to the party. One day there was a fancy-dress party at the house of his cousin, the Lady Esmerelda Wallop-Smythe. "I'll be there!" Henry said. "Yeah, in a cocked hat!" said the Lady Esmerelda. So when he arrived in his best britches and dress uniform, he found that he was the only one who had...
Down six steps and under the fire escape.
Don't knock on the door, follow the hall to the end.
Go through the curtain and around the corner.
Follow the music.
Yes, just there, through that door.
Don't speak. Find a seat, even if it's on the floor.
Yes her voice is real, though you expect wings to sprout from her back at any time.
Put down your phone. This isn't for the masses. Did they make the pilgrimage? Did they risk the dank, dangerous streets?
They don't deserve to hear it. The phone won't capture it anyways.
Just sit. Listen....
Never before had he entered this room. The dream of the golden sea was clearer in his mind than ever before. There was nothing in here beside a small woorden bench under the high window. When a girl suddenly spoke behind him, Entas froze to the spot. She said his name. Then she started to sing. And he knew: this is her. It must be her. She knew the lines and the melody nobody else in the world could possibly know.
Entas, she said, I'm here.
He turned around.
The light behind her was so bright that he only saw...