The colors bleed into brown, red to rust, green to yellow.
The maple leaves will change and fall with a certain grace-- November will begin.
It mourns the soft breeze of summer, the baked earth from the sun, but looks forward eagerly to the cool rain, and rest in dormancy.
I stand next to the gnarled wood of the tree, placing my hand on the jagged surface.
This time, I'll follow the seasons. I 'll rest and let the autumn bleed from me my growth and energy.
Winter will freeze me, it's icy fingers clutching my heart, winding around my...
Light.
Fuck light, right? Right.
Light just shows what I don't want to share, it takes away my CHOICE. Isn't that abusive or some such touchy-feely bullshit?
"Teacher? Light is taking away my choice!"
Yeah well, "teacher" would just tell me to STFU so...
Thing is...think is I, well, I crave it, yk? I crave it. I crave the light like I crave sugar or coffee (not caffeine - there's a difference).
Damn thing. Always seems to fling a little clarity at exactly what I've hidden so carefully away. I take care with my secrets hide them good. Keep them...
Marjorie was drowning. She felt the pull of the water on her legs and the icy shock in her heart. She hadn't even felt the hands on her back as she strolled along the darkened pier. She knew she was going to die and deep within her soul knew that she didn't want to. She kicked with all her might and little by little she began to ascend toward the surface. Her legs tangled up in weed attached to the piers structure like an obscene cat's cradle. She hauled at it, tearing her skin as she did so, the salt...
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...
It wasn't entirely fair. It wasn't.
You knew it wasn't.
See that one in the back? She's yours, right?
The one barely visible?
The safe one.
That one is yours.
The one in front? Not yours, not really. Not the same way.
Polka dots. Something Sandra bought her the last time you...well, the last time.
Sandra. She's not your either, not anymore. In the end, she wasn't safe. Not really.
It's the eyes, isn't it? The eyes that get you. Maybe the sun - the way it seems to be an answering presence, a judging presence. Judging...her? You? But not...
From the edge of a hole in the ground, lying on his side in a pool of his own blood, Jim looked around for his arm.
Eventually his glazed eyes drifted down the side of the pit, down to the bottom, where a mess of body parts mixed together like a good gumbo.
"Is that my arm?" Jim thought about thinking.
His ears rang, buzzed, sounded like being tumbled in a wave, with the adrenaline rush of wondering if you'll break the surface or if this is it.
He looked to the tree nearby, to wear a squirrel was peeking...
Sometimes I still feel like a kid - excited about silly things like jumping into puddles, watching how the water splashes out in every direction. It's nice to be the centre of something like that, something movable and real.
Especially now.
I'm so caught up in my own head. I'm worried about disappointing my parents, my professors, myself... it's hard to just live. It's hard to just follow my heart when I'm so concerned with what everyone else wants. The thing is, I don't even think anyone has such crazy expectations for me. My parents just want me to be...
Why didn't you hear me when I called? Or did I not hear you hearing me? Is that possible? I guess anything's possible these days. Just turn on anything. Better yet, try turning something off. Good luck. I think the whirring sound above may have something to do with your leaving, but I've been wrong before. Please give a sign. I'll just stand here. No wait, I'll stand here instead. How's this? Is this far enough to be safe? Look, I'm not even waving my arms. I'm simply here for you and your lazy gesture. How many have made that...
How endlessly the ocean seems to stretch out over the horizon. It never ends as it drifts beyond view, but you and I both know that even though it continues further than our sight, it will go on to find its end at some far off beach on some other continent. There, someone will stand at it's shore and look out the way that we are now and make the same observation. We will then be the ones that cross their minds as some strangers with our toes in the sand, creating some cycle of perception of one another. I...
There not much to say about this motorcycle that my grandfather gave me other than it's seen better days. The rust on the sides indicate multiple days and nights spent out in the rain and cold and the headlight is so dim that it must have been years since it's been changed. For me, this bike has no sentimental value, other than the value it's been given by my grandfather. He loved this bike more than anything. He would ride it across the country once every year just to see both coasts and catch up with old friends that he...