I'm in luuu-uv with a ro-bot
An' I just can't stop
Got a feelin' he's a bad lot
But he gets me over the top
It was loud. It was *bad*. It was everywhere. It was augmented by neon lights in rainbow colors and, somehow, the voices and laughter bouncing off all the hard surfaces in here.
So, this, apparently, was a bar.
"Relax," Maya muttered at her side. "You look like a nun in need of Ex-Lax."
"This isn't what I had in mind," Elizabeth hissed back. "What the hell in the phrase 'a quiet night somewhere' made you...
Yeah yeah. We're here. Uh huh.
Well, we had this idea. Not totally sure it was smart. Yeah. Timothy is looking at it right now. No, no, it's a black flag. Pirates. I know. I know. I told you we weren't sure. How did they react? Not well. They kind of ... panicked, I think you'd say. Jumped over board. Uh huh. I think if we were starting from scratch we'd probably think it through a little more closely. No I know. The problem is they thought were were the pirates. Well... Okay, let's agree to disagree. Yes it was...
reminded of yesterday
time and syllables
on the bus
greening the escapades
sifting the aftermath
reliving just before
loving the waters
time on stop
bridging the gap
minding the openness
all says go
the road to
his is what it’s like when you get lost. the thorns of red vines stick into your fingertips as you try to shield your face. your feet kick up the smell of old leaves, and it makes you think of suburban autumnal piles, of the hot cider that your father always made you. it’s strange to think of it now. you’re so far in, working your way towards the belly of the beast. what was waiting for you there? you stop for a moment. you are having queer thoughts. it’s then you feel the change. your hair is the color...
A small woman in her mid-20's sits in a doctor's office staring, seemingly at nothing, right in front of her, as if peering deep into herself. Her eyes, drooping at the small corners, glistening slightly as they search from left to right and then from right to left. A deep sigh lodged in the cavernes of her being finally escapes.
The door opens and in shuffles an older man, gray speckled hair, deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes from squinting at translucent sheets held up to lights, his glasses resting on his nose several inches from his...
I...
I...I'm not sure what to say.
Lola.
God. Just the name. Just reading the name - a word, really and I'm gone. Just gone.
Do I actually remember her anymore? Sometimes, I wonder about that. Sometimes I think that what takes me away, what takes all ability to think or feel anything beyond the word, the name - LOLA...isn't really her at all.
There's this insidious thought that it's not her at all, but just what I always wanted her to be. And wouldn't that be the final victory? That I'm tormented by what I tried to make her...
The wizened beast crawled across the savannah, dragging the old cart with dilapidated wheels. The grassland swayed, tickling his nostrils. He made his way to the coffee table after pulling his head out of the carpet.
"Daddy, you can't stand yet! You are supposed to be pulling my wagon!"
"Daddy needs his coffee, son." The man scratched his stubble and his backside, retaining the mannerisms of his cattle form. The child scampered around the couch, catching the beast at its watering hole.
"Alright, back on the trail. Where was I heading?"
"Oregon trail. You have dysentery."
"So to the toilet...
Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.
She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?
The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did...
"Vanquished, you say?"
He murmured it, holding up the worn little book in the dusty light, crooning to it. He held it gently, but peculiarly—*that* wasn't the way her mother had told her how to hold old books. He held it like a creature, like it was a little, wounded thing in a forest.
She darted back behind the end of the shelf as the strange man stiffened, and held her breath as he slowly turned his head to look down the aisle. His eyes were wrong. His clothing was wrong, too, she knew it was older than it should...