ashes

his music made sleeping feel like water at the edge of a glass table -- the tension that kept him intact was just as fragile as the pressures that kept him asleep. his crumpled clothes reeked of sweat and cigarettes and the glorious smell of woman. soaked in the unblinking suspension of belief in dreaming, he let himself float.

(still drafting)

He tucked whatever was left in his left breast pocket, shook his umbrella, opened it, and walked away.

It felt like summer, except inside you, you know? It felt like galaxies that were spinning forever suddenly stop, and then rushing through you. And then ravaging you, but in a good way, so then when they’d resume spinning, you’d be left bare. Then in your veins, where blood used to be, there would be memories and the faint scent of happiness. That’s what it felt like. 

LAST NIGHT

This is the first creative writing assignment of the year, and it being that, I wanted it to be pretty enough to have people aside from my Lit prof read it. :)) The original was written in third person but when I was fixing it up the night before the deadline, it was just so detached and unappealing, I started over from scratch. 

This is a complete revamp. Be kind.

Untitled (ONE).

This is going to be part of a series of little chapters in my attempt to finish a short story. Don't expect anything great out of this. It's a work in progress (obviously). For all intents and purposes, it would be great if you read this with the notion that it was written by a twelve-year-old, just so it'll stand a chance. 

I'm also trying to play with the whole point-of-view thing. I usually write stories in third person, but our lesson in Lit is on P.O.V. and I kind of want to get into it. :-??

Errare humanum est.

It was simple at first, and innocent. You came with a heavy heart and a wilted frame, rattled bones and a rattled soul. And no one came when you came; just you, alone, with yourself. Everyday a jagged ragged drag to get by, by any means. 

And her, with her quiet pleasures and faint smiles, and her tendency to look away, like she wasn't interested when she was rapt in her daydreams. And with her she brought her careless. She dabbed reckless on her wrists and let everyone take a whiff, of her something sweet and something tangy. She walked around like around was hers to walk on. And when she turned to you, you saw her, luminous. She shimmered brilliant in the day and in the dark. 

You took her and you loved her, loved her well and true, and gracefully -- more than you had ever done anything in your life. She made you feel, didn't she? Like there was more to life than the getting-by's and the have-to-do's. She was a necessity, yes; but she was also a luxury one no one else could afford. 

Little by little, you lost your grace and you lost your gentle. You started to take, and she let you take her, whole. She leapt into the abyss with you -- into your dreams and your plans, and your world where your ways were higher and infinity was a concept you could grasp. She jumped and she fell, and you didn't catch her because you were too busy falling; you forgot that she fell for you. 

When you crashed, finally, you realized that your ways were far from high, and that your world was not one that tolerated dreamers, that infinity was a concept that refused to exist to those who thought it plausible, and that you couldn't live for everything. You became obsessed with your failure. All you did was think, and she laid right by you as you did so. Lying because she hadn't the strength to pick herself up, dust herself off, and show herself out. She loved you too much, too truly.

You who wiped the careless off her lips, smeared the reckless from her wrists, and told her she was all you had when you had other things in mind. And when your thoughts could no longer be contained, you needed to forget. So you left.No grace, not true, nor brave.

And since then she's carved her cheeks out with tear stains and heartache. Sleep. 

Give you, and I will give me.

All of me and nothing less, nothing less for the one who has my 

heart. And don't act like you don't hurt, like I don't phase you. I 

make you shiver in your sleep. I remind you of Sunday afternoons 

and walking on sand with your eyes closed. I remind you of the 

sound of the ocean.

Inelastic collision - I think that's what they call this. We met, 

somehow, and we never left. We crashed into each other and stayed 

in that state: crooked, broken, destroyed; and all the while, (un)

alone. It was like we forgot how to separate. We forgot the world 

without; we forgot the world. Me and you and me and you and this 

event and that event and then some more me's and you's.

But at what velocity? To what end? Will we never stop running? 

And what are we running from? And where are we running to? 

Who are we becoming? Who were we before? All this colliding 

and no reflection, no analysis, no papers.

What if we're just a concept, an idea, a theory? What if we exist 

only in thought, a model for everyone to follow, but a 

pseudoreality. Unattainable, and therefore perfect. And on a 

Cartesian plane, we are every point on every quadrant, sailing 

towards out there with as much vigour and determination as when 

we met, constant acceleration. What if this never ends.

We will keep going until there is no where left to go. We will find 

others, meet others, love others - but through it all, have each other. 

Despite all else, I will always have a you, and you will always have 

a me. No matter who we are or who we become.

But I'm afraid that someday, this ideal inelastic collision realizes 

just how improbable it is, and it faults. It will start losing its grip, 

and we'll start floating away, out into the ever-stretching out there. 

Then what? Then who? Then where? Everything will start to 

matter.

, all I want is you - will you stay by me? 

// Stand idly by as I.
Watch and wait and dive and drown
in oceans of you
spin,
around and orbit
you
like a moon
like a comet
shooting through the sky
on a path
never straying
passing and passing
and always just
but if fortune be kind
we'll collide
and
devour
each other.

Explode
Undo
Rewrite

We could be infinite as dust(mights).

ne suffit pas

Someday she will lose everyone, and her lies and her love will tangle her up into a ball of defeat. She will cradle her memories like a boy she once knew. And when she dances, there's no music, just her shoes tapping and her sleeves gathering, and her breath catching no one around.

She will lie on the floor, idle and disgraced. With the smoke trailing out of her mouth in a swirl of sinless guiltless disconcerting puffs; like her dreams. Heaving sighs and tired eyes, her face a mesh of her false truths, all of them spawning rabid on her skin. She will be a fraction of what she was and she will have no one.

Her feet light on the floor, creeping like a ghost in the halls of her home. Her things will haunt her, pictures and dressers and bathroom mirrors, ribbons and colors she wore when she was the solar system. She will stand there, in the middle of what was once comfort and realize that her safety had been stolen.

Someday she will lose everything, and her sanity and her fingers will tangle up into shards of glass. She will write in red, on her walls and on her skin. She will hang her money from noosed ties and tie her career to her bed posts. She will strangle her time with her nails, her knees digging into his guts as she presses down harder, begging him for more.

She will lose herself. In whiskey and bed sheets. And she will refuse to be found.

behave.

She was always the kind of person who blended into walls well, really well, like cement well. She would disappear into a crowd like she was paid to do it; just because she was always did it so well, like she was invisible. And people who didn't know her, well, they never did; and the people that did, they simply didn't care. She was an ornament, a decoration, an additional head to the sea of breathing treading vibrating carcass of those existing. She was disposable.

In true spec-dust spirit, she refused to hold parties, refused to date, refused to recite in class. She refrained from doing anything that would get her noticed, that would allow people to see her, even just the husk that she was -- the statue of a husk that she was. No one ever knew her: the girl in a corner with a book in her face, her hands on her lap, her eyes to the floor. The girl in the corner with her shirt a size too big, with her bag slung too low, with her lips sealed shut. Nothing but the girl in the corner accumulating dust. 

Mostly, she was afraid. She was the kind of afraid that was afraid of everything.  She was afraid of becoming everything she saw, of everything she heard. She was afraid of turning into a statistic, a story, a cliche. So instead, she became nothing. She stayed a stagnant little drop of nothing.

Forever breathing, forever being, yet never living. You can be and never really be. And she was, but never truly was. She became the cliche, the story, the statistic. She became what she feared: a tragedy. 

I want to be a corner stone.

You know how some people are good at sports or singing or making people laugh? Well, Cara was good at climbing stairs. She climbed stairs with such vigour, and such a quiet passion, it was invigorating just to watch her. No one noticed her though, because if they did, they’d put her in a tower. It was a good thing, then, that no one noticed. They all thought she was good for nothing; but that wasn’t true, because she was good at climbing stairs. Everyone was just too busy to notice.

One day, as she was climbing stairs, she met a boy. His name was Max. He liked her average brown hair and her average brown eyes and her slightly above average ability to hold a gaze, so he said hi. She replied. He asked her where she was going; she said she didn’t know, so they both started climbing down. It was quiet, nothing but the sound of their shoes against the concrete, and he liked the click of her heels, and the way she said nothing, so when they were at the end, he asked her out for coffee, and because she didn’t know what that was like, she said yes.

When they met for coffee, he wore his leather jacket, and she thought that was rad, so she let him hold her hand. They made pleasant conversation. He said he was a painter, and because she liked art, she giggled at his jokes even though she had never giggled before in her life. When they had finished their coffee, they stayed sitting in their booth talking even though it was getting late and the seats had tears in the leather, even though the table legs were uneven and the barista who was looking at them had a lazy eye.

When it was time to leave, he offered to walk her home, and because it was dark, she let him. Then he told her about his family, so at the door, she kissed him goodnight. He blushed but hid it. Her heart glowed and he knew – because she kissed him again. They both smiled as they laid in bed evening-thinking about coffee and torn leather seats. He swore he would paint her, and she swore she would kiss him again.

You know how some people are good at sewing or cooking or making up band names? Well, Max was good at watching. He watched everything, but no one cared, because if they did, he’d be on a talk show. It was an unfortunate thing that they didn’t; the world would be a better place if people knew what he thought. They all thought he was good for nothing – just a man with a brush; but that wasn’t true, because he was more than a brush. Everyone was just too ignorant to care.

One day, on his way down some stairs, he met a girl. Her name was Cara. She liked the canvases under his arm and the paint stains on his shirt, and the way the corners of his lips were curving upward, so she kept her gaze. He said hi. She said she didn’t know where she was going, so he invited her to walk down with him. It was quiet, nothing but the faint light in their eyes, and she liked the way he smiled at her from time to time, and the slant of his canvases when he propped them up against the way; so when he asked her out for coffee, she said yes.

When they met for coffee, she wore her Sunday dress, and he thought she looked pretty, so he held her hand. They exchanged words and sentences and thoughts, more importantly thoughts. She said she was a librarian, and he thought that was dull, so he made a lot of jokes, and smiled when she giggled because it sounded adorable. When they had finished their coffee, they stayed sitting in their booth talking even though it was getting dark outside and the exit sign flickered every six seconds, even though a part of the seat had sunken in, and the old ladies with the gold purses were staring at them.

When it was time to leave, she bit her lip and smiled, and because an old man started smiling, he walked her home. Then she talked to him about divorce and the economy, so at the door, he kissed her back. Her eyes lit up, but tried to hide it. His blood ran like water, and she knew – because he kissed back harder. They both sighed as they brushed their teeth, pre-sleep pondering about old people and flickering lights. She swore she would understand, and he swore he would make her immortal.

i am.

Trying to write a poem is horrible. I can't. I mean, I probably could but the poems I'm going to come up with will be so god-awful, the people who read it will have brain aneurysms trying to comprehend why I would write such a thing. 

*

it's just dark
and dank
and it smells like my skull
the notes in my head
they keep me alive
and everyone thinks
i'm going insane

the boat is sinking
follow your leader
simon says
jump

i am a chair
to be sat on
and stood on
for people to prop against doors
and get lap dances on

i am a chair
mono block
wooden
steel
does it matter

i am a chair
something for the tired
and the lazy
and a chair will never complain
no matter how heavy
no matter how long
a chair is a chair
and it will stay in one place
until it breaks
and then
you get a new one

but a table
a table is even more worthless than a chair.
tables are for preparing
and studying
and writing important things on
they're for getting body shots
and dancing
and maps and pens

but a table is formality
and etiquette 
and politeness and demeanor
and i am none of those things
i am a chair

Wind(ed)

When he first saw her, she was beautiful, the kind of beautiful you never want to forget. She was the kind of beautiful people kept in bright gold cages or framed on top of fireplaces, and from time to time when life was hard, they would stop and admire that beauty. She was much too pretty for someone like him, but he tried anyway.

Their first few weeks together were lovely and awkward and spontaneous, but none were boring. They climbed trees and played hide and seek in the rain, in parking lots, in department stores. They stole candy and walked around with their underwear on the outside. Who knew such a beautiful thing could be so clumsy. They drove into the stars with their hearts on their lips as they kissed.

There was so much of each other to go around, to touch and taste and smell and keep. So much of each other to see and feel and never forget, to keep in cages and frame on top of fireplaces. They held each other so tightly, they almost broke. They often forgot how delicate they really were and would crush each other in gazes and embraces.

And then one day she left, without notice or warning. She stopped coming to the trees or smiling when it rained. She stopped eating candy and always wore coats over her clothes. He didn't give up though. He kept coming to the trees, and waited outside her house when it rained and sent her candy in the mail. After a lot of leaves and a lot of rain, he stopped too.

And it was a long time before he felt warm again, because all he could think about was her, lovely glowing beautiful her. Of course, she was still beautiful, but it was the kind of beautiful most people didn't want to meet. She was cold and distant and silent. She was the kind of beautiful people kept in museums, to look at when they wanted to know all that was in the world.

There only thing he could do was wait and hope the winter thawed out and her smile would come back with the spring, that their heat would roll in with the summer, and that fall would never come again.

*

I'm sorry. This isn't one of my best but I have no where to put it. Forgive me for I have posted.

So here's to Gucci.

She gripped the makeshift noose she created by knotting a bunch of her daddy's ties together. She tied them to the handle at the edge of the top bunk on their double decker. And now, standing on top of her desk chair, everything still seemed so surreal. Was she really going to do this? It seemed a little juvenile - killing herself over something as shallow and materialistic as things.

She gripped the smooth red silk in her hand. Mmm, Italian. Daddy would appreciate her taste; at least she would go out in style. Mommy might cry a little bit, but she'll get over it when she finds her favourite pair of Prada pumps stashed away under the bed. Would they even notice that their little girl is hanging from the bedpost when they find the letter? Will they see the big red writing on the wall, the blood in the sink, the spilled nail polish? Probably not.

It's just things. But it isn't.

It would be easy to say it was a boy, but it wasn't. It was, but not exactly. See, he wasn't just things. He was wearing old vintage, he was jumping out of windows and breaking into backyards. He was staying out til' two AM on school nights and drinking til' you were blind. He was having lunch on the sidewalk and building forts out of pillows. He was driving out of town in their parents' car just to sleep on the sand.

She felt her eyes water.

Breathing him in on summer nights, cold and solid breaths. Pressed up against him skin and against skin, bracing the icy chill together, feeling the breeze pour in through the window. And still they never froze. His scent in her lungs, his hands at her back, behind her neck, on her face. Peace and quiet and chaos inside her head. Feeling his muscles tense under her fingertips, precious against her. Watching his face glow faint from the illumination of the Christmas lights strewn around her room. Hearing him whisper, "I'll never leave," and believing it.

Her parents made him go away. Mommy's friends hated him and Daddy's credit cards scared him. And maybe, just maybe, maybe she tried too hard.

She put it on like a necklace, glossy and luminous, a summary of what she was in silk. She bent her knees and tried pulling, making sure it would tighten. It did. Her lips parted, gasping for that extra breath.

The day she lost him was the day she got her Porsche. It was the most impractical present for a fifteen year old. It was the day he realized he didn't belong in her world, the day he said she deserved better. She could still smell him. She never breathed in so much in her life. All these years she kept the scent in her lungs, hoping she would never run out of memory of what made her float. She grabbed him and kissed him and pushed him against walls. She slapped him and screamed and accused him of all sorts of things. She broke vases and plates and chased after him barefoot. She cried and told him she loved him for seventeenth time that night. Maybe she tried too hard.

She tiptoed and pulled in that last bit of air. She let go and pushed the chair away, feet kicking. Desperate wide wild eyes stared straight as she kicked; her hands grabbing at the silk at her neck and clawing at it, like a cat, or a shredder. Finally, her lungs gave in and the last bit of perfume and summertime drew out of her mouth.

Maybe she tried too hard to keep and remember him - the boy, the scent, the freedom. Then again, was it really so wrong that she try to keep the one thing that kept her sane.