The ocean, the land, the bridge. These are the metaphors of my life. I stand on sinking ground, toes curled against the tension of the the surf and sand, the give and take, the conquest and retreat. Submerge into eternity or hold my ground a while longer?
There is, of course, the bridge. The mediator. It arches over the rivals, dipping into one, clutching the hands of the other. It's base is mossy, cool, a fuzzed pillar for fish to dart around. It's back is hot, sunbaked.
The bridge is the holder of peace. It is the symbol of one....
I once tried a six minute story
As a cure for a tapped-out mental quarry
Writer's block was the snare
"Toujours ici" filled the air
And I floundered like a carp in a dory
Wet asphalt sparkling under the white sky. There is a yawn of blue. Sometimes fall is brighter than summer, more alive with moisture and energy. Some things are dying, but many things end like fireworks.
We can be categorized in many ways. Let's divide us into the standing, the sitting and the reclining for the time being. Then let us separate into summer minds, winter minds, spring minds, fall minds.
You're going to yawn. You're going to stretch your eyes.
She followed the footsteps that wound through the snow; the clouds that brushed across the moon's face alternately limning and hiding them. A shudder rippled through her as the wind bit deep and the faint trail of her steady breath formed and faded behind her. At the edge of the trees, she halted and focused intently on the figure crouched in the center of the clearing. Arms wrapped tightly around his knees and his head bent, not a flicker of movement betrayed him.
She unzipped her jacked and tugged off her gloves, letting them fall to the ground. The soft...
I lay siege to it. This was war and a fast and furious assault seemed the surest course. There was a front to push forward, barriers to overcome, landmines to be defused. I was young and relentless and eager; I couldn't lose. After every foray I watched the scaffolding rise again, higher and higher and each time I tore it down, waiting for the walls to fall. Eventually I tired of the advance and retreat. New orders came. I couldn't win this battle and there were other wars to fight.
Years later I returned to that once fragile country. A...
You're forgetting what happened and remembering what didn't
I'm now your memory and have given up mine
When you're gone
Will that be a blessing or a curse?
I lash out in frustration
But the strike is soon forgotten
And I'm the one left wounded
Twice over
You forget what happened
And I remember for you
And in doing so
I have given up the last pure memory of childhood
I'd trade, you know
You take mine, I'll take yours
But I think you'd find my memory
A bitter thing
You forgot
I remembered
What happened?
They weren't Norwegian, they were Swedish. We bombed all hell out of them anyway.
That was ash, not smoke. Ash moves slower than smoke. Ash langours. Yes, that might have been soot, but it could have been bone.
In the mess at breakfast, we could heard a chirping through the settling din.
That wasn't a bird.
We were eating tuna fish sandwiches on the green outside the palace. The sandwiches were soggy but we ate them anyway. The sky and the water were dusk. "It's dusky," I said. "No," she replied.
We ate the soggy sandwiches as we stared at the sky. When you're lost in thought, your sense of taste dims. Staring at the sky and down at the water, I could feel my taste buds run up to my eyes. I could almost taste the sky.
I could tell you I tasted the water, but it just tasted like water. Soggy.
He's as tall as the door, my obsession, and almost as wide. His shoulders hold the promise of strength and safety, his tapered torso slims to promising hips that I try hard not to stare at. His eyes look through my soul, piercing my resolve and dissolving my barriers until I can no longer bear to be in the same room.
He doesn't know this, of course. I smile and nod and grab my files as if I am incredibly busy, then walk to the end of the office. Even though my back is turned and I occupy my shaking...
Yes he did. Right between the eyes. It hurt like hell. ´Well I don´t think he did it on purpose´I lied. He was just really angry and he got out of control. Jimmy´s face was turning a strange shade of purple, he looked so enraged I thought he was on the verge of losing it. ´Thats it!- On what planet is it ok for an employer to hit an employee! It´s 2011,those kind of things shouldn´t happen!´. He grabbed his keys from the coffee table and moved towards the door. I ran and stood in front of it in a...