"I almost had you, didn’t I?"
Six Word Story (via blackbruise)
You held me
I wanted to melt into your spider arms
cocooned around my small and ample frame,
but settled for breathing you in and warming my hands
through the heat underneath
your canvases of skin.
Our fingers learned the maps of each other’s figure.
We promised ourselves it was meaningless sex
but maybe it wasn’t.
We had made love,
even before our bodies melted into one -
it was not me letting you inside,
but you finally letting me come close enough
We had been considerate
and cherished pregnant pauses between kisses that lasted
longer than the day.
Kisses that left the heart burning and had our palms cupped
on cheeks and necks
and entwined in hair.
Kisses, like the tender kiss that was laid on my forehead
but landed on my heart.
The kisses, at least, were far from
We slept together, just slept,
my head rested perfectly in a space
hidden in your skeleton.
“Peirs!” Her voice cut through the mist and hung in the damp air for a moment. Professor Peirs Dedlock spun around and squinted against the blinding light now washing over his face. He could see only a faint outline of her ample frame, but he knew in an instant that it was her. His darling Stella. “Peirs, where are you?” She called out to him again. Try as he might, though, he could not seem to answer her cries.
The wind is a ghost
entreating entrance at my window panes.
It tries for gaps
in door jambs, in shoddy carpentry.
I can hear it grow furious
though I deny it.
The trembling foundation rattles, and howls,
And I do feel fear
that it will slip through unforeseen cracks
that this house will be brought to its knees.
like it always has;
I’m not letting you in.
Here’s a short story I wrote for my LIT 115 class; upon suggestion, I have submitted it to my campus’s literary magazine. The assignment was to create an urban fairy tale, though mine ended up being substantially longer than those of my peers; hope you enjoy. -L
A perfectly average Thursday in the middle of September found Virginia Adder sitting with her feet dangling in the river that ran along the northern edge of her sleepy Ohio town. She had gone off to sink her thoughts in the murky, green water of the Miami, for there were few things she valued more than pensive afternoons – much like the one she was currently enjoying. The sun was playing a game of hide and seek with the passing cumulus, but was out long enough to provide ample warmth so that a jacket was not required of anyone outdoors. The leaves, turned oranges the color of fox fur and vivid crimsons by the sting of autumn’s chill, broke up the tributary’s mirrored surface as they floated by, occasionally brushing against her ankles and tickling her pale pink skin. It reminded her of the summer before last, when she had spent her fifteenth birthday riding bareback across her uncle’s expansive property. She had been able to feel the horse’s coarse, sweat-dampened fur against her mostly bare legs and she recalled feeling at peace. Virginia lay back onto the yellowing grass, stretching her arms above her as she let herself be lulled to sleep by the whisper of the breeze dancing with the trees.
Isaiah Dean had one of his worst cases of writer’s block to date. Try as he might to conjure up a captivating tale of mystery or romance or war and transcribe it onto the page, each sentence he managed read like the nonsensical musings of a madman. Normally, Isaiah would have shrugged this problem off, had a glass of cheap, red wine, and gone to sleep, relying on his dreams to provide him with fresh ideas. This time was different however. His nights, lately, had been dreamless. His subconscious mind seemed to have run out of ideas.
Perhaps, Isaiah had thought when his troubles began, my dreams are only sleeping in a sense themselves. Perhaps they are only lying dormant and will return in time.
Isaiah’s struggle had lasted weeks, however, and he was beginning to lose hope. He prayed each night (although those that knew him would tell you that he had never claimed any god) that he would dream fabulous dreams that might inspire him once again. He read novel ofter novel hoping for some concept or character to penetrate his inactive subconscious and spark a new story. He sat on a park bench for hours everyday watching people who might serve as a segue into another brilliant tale. But nothing Isaiah did spawned any new ideas.
Another day gone without so much as an dot of imagination, Isaiah retreated to his small kitchen for his customary glass of wine. One glass quickly became two, then three, and soon the entire bottle was empty. In a haze Isaiah stumbled to his bedroom and found himself face to face with a horribly unsightly shell of a human being. The abomination stood almost six feet tall and looked so near to death that Isaiah felt he could see the shadow of the grim reaper behind the hunched figure. Isaiah stared at the creature’s tangled mess of hair, its yellow, crooked teeth, and its bloated form for what felt like hours. It never spoke, but Isaiah somehow knew the creature’s tale. He knew what it had been through and what had brought it to this terrible state. Finally, Isaiah Dean had something to write about. He walked, almost ran, to his study and sat down to write. Here is what Isaiah Dean wrote:
"Isaac Danes had one of his worst cases of writer’s block to date…."
"It’s flooding here. Do you miss it?" you ask.
Of course I miss it.
I miss it more than you could comprehend. I miss the greenery of a place that breathes back at you, the smell of constantly moist earth, and the sound of the pooled water being shaken to the ground as birds fluttered unseen between the dense trees. I miss feeling the thunder of the river in my chest as I stood at its banks, witnessing the raw beauty of its heightened power as it roared the way my heart did when you kissed me sweetly in the park and how it raged through the trees like the blood in my veins when we had to say goodbye.
"You need a change in scenery, don’t you?"
Here, it is arid. Everything struggles, but never flourishes. I am a flower, trying desperately to push its way through the clay to find the sun only to learn that once I reach it, it will burn me. Where is my oak that shades and shelters?
"Come back to Kentucky, you’ll find me there," you answer.
Christmas morning brought no snow. Theodore Watkins, however, could not care less one way or the other. His breath hung in the air as he stood barefoot in the bitter cold of the early morning. His robe tied loose around his waist, Theodore paced his rotten front porch. Finally having a moment alone during this painfully busy season of the year, he lit a cigarette and promised himself, like he had done so often before, that it would be his last. The feeling left his toes. An icy numbness crept through his aching joints as he sat on an antique rocking chair and thought to himself: “I don’t think I’ve ever been so peaceful.”
The willow tree combed our hair, and parted it to the side,
and made our noses crinkle,
sending gauzy seeds alight,
to perch themselves on our eyelashes.
Your spine was pressed against the earth,
your pupils fixated on the pearly strands
that hung from the top of the tree like a canopy.
Your cavelike mouth parted slightly ajar,
to speak something that was stolen by the breeze.
but it wasn’t restated,
for our minds then belonged to the sky.
- Caroline adams, 14
This is my poem in celebration of the pride of self
This is my poem to say out loud
to shout from the rooftops
It is mine to praise my thirst for life, my ability to taste the summer, and my opportunity to become an artist in every meaning of the word
This poem is for John Thomas,
the best friend who has always loved me throughout every hardship
even when 1,000 miles
didn’t come between us
Who held me when I cried and kissed me when I needed it
because you wanted to make sure I was still surviving even though
you were struggling to keep your head above water just like me.
This poem is for the ex-boyfriend
who wanted to love me right
but couldn’t open his eyes to figure me out
Whose heart I tried my best not to break
but inevitably did anyways because I couldn’t hold on any longer
You gave me your love
as best you could
but I slipped through your hands like a beam of moonlight
and now your tears are flooding my dreams
This poem is a celebration of the smiles
of the people who picked me up again and again
maybe even just once
But it is for those who saved my life without knowing it
and asked for nothing
when I was weak enough to wish it all away
This poem is for all the girls in high school
who opened their hearts and their legs
and now decorate their walls with first birthdays
instead of diplomas
It is for the girls who ate compliments like air and will never cope with
the day they asphyxiate
This is for my mother
who I think hates me
because my father loved me, too
because I destroyed her figure
because I was a reminder of the postpartum depression that never left
It is for her shame
that she would rather remain wed to a man
who laid in bed every night in his apartment in Columbus with a woman who was ten years younger than be divorced
and facer her reality
This poem is for the sickness
that makes my stomach turn
when I smell it and when I see someone catch it and when I can’t help keeping it from my veins
It is hard to see at times but
hate jumps at others from the lips of those it ails
This is a poem to say I am washing my hands
I am taking the steps to keep myself from catching the greatest plague to strike our species
I am here to state that I am trying
so before you choose to judge me
Know that I have lived with words that ran around the page and swapped pages
with voices that tore me down
with the worst genes from my parents
with moving vans being a common form of transportation and friends a fleeting factor
and with Goodwill clothes that smelled of mold and sweat
Understand, I know exactly what I got: shelter and a voice
and no more will I stand for ruing my fortune.
I will make my shaky legs stand
as I defend my friends and opportunities
the schools of excellence with their scholastic catalogs
the meters of packing paper on which I created new worlds
and room to make all the mistakes I have left in my wake
I will not allow myself to be slowed down
not by you, and not by me
I will avoid all that fetters and hold back nothing
I had love and I intend to keep my chin up and carry on as best I can
Dear children of today,
Do you see me? If you see me, how do you see me? Am I pixels, am I character from a game? Am I a picture from a magazine? Am I an online profile? Am I a before-and-after commercial? Am I an outfit, a pile of clothes walking down the street without a face?
Do you see the sun beckoning beyond the planes of glass, or are you too busy in your staring contest with the television screen? Do you wonder if there’s more than tanning booths and money and a full closet and your cars and your video games and your rankings among your peers?
Do you see dust motes dancing in a ray of light, do you hear the wind whispering through the trees and grasses, do you look for the images of the constellations in the heavens above, do you notice the way things grow, are you comforted by the sound of a fire crackling? Do you see how beautiful the simple things in the world are?
Do you think your own thoughts, or just what you’re told?
Children of today, do you see me?
Everything these days is covered by a thick layer of sugar and caffeine and prozac and fake smiles. I believe that i am one of 27 people who still know what it is to be human, and I am about to be taken outside to stand before a firing squad for just that reason. They are to be my Saint Peter; apparently i wasn’t good enough for the pearly gates. Alright then.
I say 27 people as a rough guess of course, but it cannot be more than 27. I knew of at least 90 or 100 but Armageddon did away with them quite efficiently.
Gunshots have cut through the silence five times so far today. Not in battle, however. Gunshots in battle sound very different; rat-tat-tat. Then silence. Rat-tat. More Silence. The gunshots today have been from the firing squad; Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Who needs strategy when your enemy is bound and gagged?
Simple subtraction; There were 32 prisoners at this facility this morning, minus five rounds of the firing squad. There are 27 people here. That is, there are 27 people here if none of them have contracted disease or killed themselves.
I am writing this from inside a large office. I believe it to be belonging to the former CEO of Equatech, the company which i used to work for. All of the other prisoners are being held in tiny basement offices before they’re dragged out to the middle of 14th street. 14th street is abandoned, like every other paved road in the world. Weeds are starting to grow out of the cracks in the pavement.
They’re saving me for last. I’m counting it down on the old grandfather clock in this office; Tick-tock tick-tock.
They say that I’m a criminal mastermind, a threat to humanity. They’ll take pictures of my corpse and of the brave men who shot me down and send them all over the world along with some dramatic article about how the biggest threat to the planet was killed today. All I did was lose my prescription.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. 26. Tick-tock.