i jumped. it was the toaster this time. nerves of steel. i hand the waffle to my daughter. "dad (looking me over)--you are really bad at fashion." that's the tip of the iceberg.
people are circles. the outside circle is our behavior. the next circle is our thoughts. inside that, our feelings. at the center there is supposed to be something else, something more lasting and substantial. a light, our soul, awareness, something. and that's what we really are.
but what if this center goes unused or unnoticed for so long that it disappears. or the outer circles take on...
I was just taking a walk when it happened. Listening to music, enjoying the fresh mountain air, nothing special. It started with two butterflies. Two pink butterflies.
I had never seen two flying together before. I'm not much of a nature person. I don't like the woods, I just like the solitude. But these two butterflies caught my attention. I followed them through the woods, watching them zig and zag out of each other's paths, always staying together. I know nothing about butterflies it just seemed so unusual.
When they finally fluttered out of sight, I looked around and realized...
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...
"I feel boxed in," she said.
"I'm sorry?" he replied, not quite understanding.
"Well, the basic thing is this: the image is quite boring, and the color scheme is obnoxious, a weird, misguided attempt at the painterly surrealism that Richard Linklater's Waking Life first presented in film. Add to that two gigantic butterflies, and the whole thing just falls apart. But despite the silliness of the painting, however, there's really no room for absurdity. Characters can't wave pistols around or smoke cigars or get hit in the forehead with boards. I'm boxed in. I have nowhere to go. It's too...
Millions. Well, it seemed like millions anyway. Millions of girls in colorful ball gowns crowded into the auditorium. Millions, and I could only choose one. They all stood in silence waiting for me. I looked over my shoulder at my smiling parents sitting on their thrones. I took a deep breath and got ready to make my announcement.
"Friends, I thank you all for coming to witness the announcement as to which of you will be my bride." I scanned the sea of young women in front of me. "That woman is..." I stop short. A girl in a white...
She made pie again. She never lets me have any, but this time she made one huge mistake: placing the pie on the windowsill. Quiet as a mouse, I sneak over to the window and hide in the bushes as she looks around for me. When she doesn't see me, she shrugs and turns away. Fast as a rabbit, I jump up onto the windowsill, knock the pie to the ground, and quickly eat. The old lady peers out her window and shouts at me. I'm probably going to go to bed without dinner, but it's worth it. I got...
These images flash in my brain whenever I close my eyes. A metal door. A girl in a red gown. Rain in a filthy alley.
I can't shut them off. I can't forget. I tried to drown myself in a bar, years ago. I couldn't forget then, I can't forget now. These memories of her are too strong.
She said her name was Maria. Her English was heavily accented. Her name wasn't Maria and we both knew it. I never learned where she came from. It wasn't something I wanted to know. Sometimes you have to walk past the detail;...
This happened every single time.He stared at the blank piece of paper. It was taunting him. He sharpened his pencil again. He traced the edges of the paper again. He looked out the window. The rain was falling again. Softly. Looking back at the paper, he wondered why he ever tried to write. He put the pencil to the paper, thinking the action would prompt the thought. But it just left a small mark. He smudged it with his finger. If he could just write something. He tried to think about what he was feeling. Nothing. He tried to think...
The sound reverberated through the streets. The sound regenerated through the beets. The sound remunerated above the seats.
Then, the sound transubstantiated inside William Butler Yeats, who became a poet.
The sound instantiated outside the session scope, ultimately causing a null pointer exception. The sound invigorated the soccer players and re-elasticized their cleats.
The sound was of a kitten who had received some treats.
I don't know what the hell this is. I think I'm having an off day.