The conversation lasted two words:
Why?
No.
This was the conversation that I had with myself every day. It always followed the question that I asked myself after waking up from the dreams of my foolish heart. At night, in sleep, I would dream about him and the way things could be if only life were different. We could be and do amazing things together. Every night I dreamt and every day I asked.
Why?
No.
The words I held back from this daily conversation were the ones that hurt the most. They, were the truth. They were the words...
They gathered in the woods.
The circle wasn't complete. It probably wouldn't be - they were a dying breed, a dying art.
None of them were sure if the ceremony did anything - if it ever had. The elder members of the group - the ones who were dying out, the ones who were disappearing before they could share enough information to perpetuate them - claimed that it had worked, that it still worked, but the magic was dying with the belief.
The youngest walked the path of the circle, her bare feet already dirty, her old dress (torn, ruined,...
Emotions are tricky things. They are the things that fill us with that warm, semtimental feeling that we get in our chest while our hearts are busy taking picture so as never to forget the beauty of a moment. That emotion we might call love. They are the pounding of blood running pushing its way through our ears, sweat streaming down cheeks, and our breathing heavy and laboured. That emotion could be named fear. They are also heaviness that seeps through our body after a long day of disappointment and getting nothing done. This is discouragement. But emotions, good or...
"Wait, so he hit you? Why?" Great question. I have no freaking idea. I was just walked to my truck, minding mine, and then...whap! Now, it's a good thing my upper body is made of pure steel, or else it would have hurt. As it were, the punch just bounced off of me. Actauklkly, the man whp pnche dme broke his hand. I heard the snap of the bones and then the screams of pain. At thuis point, let me back up a bit. You see, it was the first day that McDonald's had stopped using its pink slime in...
"There," said Asad. He pointed to the horizon, his eyes crinkled with nostalgia. "That's where I saw her for the first time."
I followed the direction of his outstretched finger. The ocean was cold and dappled by the late afternoon sunshine peering through the clouds. It seemed vast and endless, and I was overcome by the urge to laugh at him.
"How can you be sure of where you saw her? This is the goddamn ocean. It all looks the same!"
"No." He shook his head, a firm, decisive movement. "I know. That is the place where we met. The...
The water was clear. It was really vodka in her glass, though. Tonight she was getting wasted, for sure. Today's class lectures and her shitty breakup with Owen had Tonya crying about every 20 minutes in her dorm room, and she would run out of class like she had to go to the bathroom, but throwup and sob for about 5 minutes and nonchalantly go back to the lecture. Now she was at O'Callaghan's downtown and her vodka on the rocks was getting the job done, for now. She liked drinking straight, it got her drunk faster. Next she would...
My feet ached, but it was well worth it. I was close to finding the lost city of the Incans. I had walked through endless jungle paths, forgotten by the human nation. But i had come to a semi-clearing. There were immense boulders, at least half the size of a skyscraper back home in New York. I pulled vines and ivy off a strange looking stone, to find a wonder: an opening. I ventured down, flashlight searching the earthy walls. Suddenly, i felt a hand clamp over my mouth. They dragged me to the ground and pushed a filthy rag...
She hated when people asked where she came from. She didn't like dwelling on the past, or for that matter, thinking of it at all.
The past made her feel weak, vulnerable. She loathed feeling that way.
She wasn't weak, like her mother. Her mother stayed with him to rot.
But not Laura, she got out as soon as she could. As far away as she could from him, the man that had the nerve to call himself her father.
He was evil, he was a monster that haunted her dreams, she hated him. Him and his "holier then though"...
The disco ball turned on its dusty axis, shining pixels of glitter light across their worn faces and twinkling in their liquid eyes. Eyes that darted to the front door when someone walked through. This hotel bar was the opposite of pretension, the only tension coming from the anticipation of meeting someone to make the night less lonely.
He came in for a beer--procrastinating to book his hotel for a corporate conference plus budget cuts at work meant he had a room at a low budget hotel. All the eyes followed him as he took a spot at the bar....
They come here every year. They come in droves to see the battlefields where good men gave their lives defending their land from the invading horde. They tromp over our sacred grounds, "ooh!" and "aah" at our homes - those that survived - and snicker at the descendants of those good, defeated soldiers who sound so different than them, yet speak the same language. But, their money is good I guess. And, looking around at the world today, at he end of a Republic turned fallen Empire, I can take some satisfaction that their hubris will soon be as dust...