Pristine. Vacant. Blankly inspired I suppose.
I stood there stiff at the edge, the reservoir grasped my echoes of desperation, but regurgitated full truths. I was to die.
Only my faulty pretences did I end up here, it was only by my willingness to give up on all that was once so attainable. This rock here is the last tangible relic of my hope, but in my full awareness I know it is.
Where did this all start my thoughts of unforgiving failures? It started at that dream, that heart-wrenching dream. In my old home that creeked with emptiness and...
"Come on, Ben," I pleaded. "Why do you have to do this every time we try to have some family time? You know we hardly ever see each other. It's the holidays, for God's sake."
"There are better ways to celebrate than eating defenseless animals that were cruelly raised and slaughtered on assembly lines," he said firmly.
I snapped. "Oh yeah, Ben, well tell me, just why is it wrong to kill animals? They're not humans, they can't reason like we do. A lot of them are predators too. We need to eat. Why not eat them?"
"Because animals have...
Whenever we move, I watch the rear view mirror as we drive. I can't let my home go, no matter if we lived there for three months or three years. I'm 23 now, and I still travel a lot. This time, I watch the setting sun as it disappears in my wake. The reds, oranges, and yellows mix together as my boyfriend drives me to our new house. We have a balcony that faces westward, so I can paint the sunset every night. I don't forget what I see when I drive to my new homes. Just walking down the...
Once, in Beijing, you were there. You were here. Doorway. Phone. Stammer.
She clutched round her that red gown, shawl over shoulders, and stood. Stands?
I am across the street, with you. Table. Café. On the table: phone, keys, change. Two glasses.
One and a half minutes ago, I hit "record" on the phone and slid the phone toward you. Between you and me.
You cleared your throat, and said:
Once, in Beijing, you were there. A young girl, a gown too big. You saw a couple across the street. One older, thin, thin-lipped, a look of resignation. One younger,...
Three pigeons landed near a sleeping homeless person, huddled up in the alcove of a building along 4th Street. The biggest pigeon, Paul, strutted by the slumbering figure as Marta, the medium-sized pigeon, walked by pretending not to see.
Paul said, "Marta, how can you just ignore this man? If I recall, you were homeless once, too."
Marta stopped to peck aimlessly at a crumb of bagel on the street.
The third pigeon, Gideon, was looking across the street at the bustling bakery, hoping to spot somebody dropping a morsel of bread or muffin, preferably banana-nut, because it was his...
We are falling, steady. We are falling a little bit. We are falling into a mass dream, an illusion that is as good as reality for now. We are falling so slowly, so gently that it feels like we are floating. We are together and we are kidding ourselves. But it is noble and good and we are falling. What reality is greater than this? What is it we are here for? We are this: we are weight: we are what makes it possible to fall.
We are falling and it is enough.
Pulling stitches out. I can do this. it's going to fucking hurt, but I can do it. Maybe I should have eaten first, my stomach is in knots, my heart sunk. That would be the last of the food, and then I would have to brave those beasts. Those fucking beasts!
It had been about twelve months. At first, it seemed laughable. Any science experiment gone wrong in this way, shrinking of huge creatures, or extremely exaggerated growth of the tiniest usually started as a series of late night jokes.
Who would have thought that butterflies of all things would...
The shoes, though pink and shiny and paired with flat white tights, were not what you wanted. "They are not ballerina shoes," you protested, knowing very well the difference from the ballet flats and the pointe shoes and just regular human shoes.
"I want some like yours," you said.
Your mother no longer wore her ballet shoes; she had once been a prima ballerina, and there were photographs of her and postcards in sepia tones that captured her in a moment of what seemed like effortless grace. Arm raised, elbow bent at such an angle that she looked like the...
That movie was so straight forward, The doctor was the hero and everything just fell into line.
I know
I like a little twist I mean it's just not entertaining otherwise
Yep
Look you want to stop off somewhere for a drink or..
Or?
She shoved her hands in the pocket of her hoodie and turned toward the alley.
It's been years she thought, probably best to leave all that in the past. Still a twist, something exciting. She moved further into the dark cramped space between the buildings.Not looking back, knowing he would follow.
It was the fall that surprised me the most.
The winter, she was fine. Spring, slowly getting sick, Summer, even sicker.
In fall, she fully recovered from stage 3 liver cancer. There was someone to thank. God or someone.
It could have been the praying, or just hoping we didn't lose her. She was only 7. 7-year-olds aren't supposed to just die from liver cancer. Ella's better now, though. It's easy to believe in something when a dying child makes a full recovery from something so evil as that.
So God, or someone, thank you. It was God or someone...