Bits of tracing paper.

Sometimes I can feel you stretching through paper,
seeking out my face
and maybe my inside s .
Time again.

Extending my finger tips
and my senses-
nothing. Except the watery salt licking my skin
as oceans of reality break me.
You aren't under the milky way tonight.

Leaving the wood in the pencil, you absorbed it's life giving lead.
Taking the paint from the brush, you've given me a real piece
to chew on.
Choking on what you didn't give,
I wonder about the lin"k"s between
places
and people.

End of the Book.

Years had passed, and we both had grown older than our skins. I cleared my throat in a gesture of genuine awkwardness. He looked the opposite direction, pretending he hadn't heard anything but the continual blast of the train whistle. The hand in mine felt like a dead fish, but I didn't care. I could write a philosophical book on whether it is better to have dead fish or no fish at all, knowing that in the end I would prefer the rotting fish to an empty hand.
"So, I guess I'll see you around," he said. I coughed on my tears, looking up at the sky. It was splintered with bits of gray amongst the pale pink of the sunrise. Funny how the smallest things remind you of life, and even in the best possible scenario, the bad guy will end up dying. I guess people don't usually think about the bad guys when they come to the end of a movie.
"I wish-..." I cracked on the words that wouldn't spill.
His fish hand came to life, gripping my weak chin in it so I had to look at him.
"Maybe we can get together when this has blown over." With his smile and my pain, I could almost see the silver tint to his lie.

Through a fit of hysterics...

Her skin went a shade whiter than bleached rice. She wrapped her arms across her torso.
"From the inside. My insides are burning. Hold myself. Glue. That's what I need."
Her eyes rolled and squinted. She reminded me of Harry's crushed Blood Hound moments before dad blew the air out of him into the stratosphere with his pistol. Desperate for closure from the pain, the dog had pitifully licked dad's steel toed boot, his sad eyes reflecting the agony words couldn't express- even if he had them at his disposal.
Fierce drops of sweat contaminated tears spilled onto her clenched fists. When I was young and alive, I remember a brightly colored toy with a fat smile plastered on it's face. If pressure were applied to the hand of the creature, it would violently shake and vibrate like a tsunami were breaking through it's fur. Looking at her, I wondered if a person could really break so hard on the inside pieces of them could leak onto the outside.
"Can't breathe. Dying by living." She wheezed through a fit of hysterics. "You're killing me." More hysterics. I guess I missed the punch line. In this room, nothing left a chuckle but the flames accompanying regret.
I wasn't sure if it was my attempt to respond to her, or the rocking of her body, but I thought I heard a dusty whisper say, "I'm dying." Soft as I came, I left. Orbiting the room, I noticed mushrooms squeezing themselves between the rotting floorboards.
My eyes would have touched the flesh on the inside of my head if I had had any. They rolled in their sockets, and my stomach dry heaved at the brilliance of the realization: Mine hadn't been a victimless crime.

Perspective B: Cities of Light

***Note: Although this post gives certain qualities similar to another student's Fiction short story, it is in no way, shape, or form, infringing upon his copyright. I would hope if he ever read it, he would be flattered I thought so highly of his work as to create a rendition.

I don't remember happiness. Or sadness. Even anger has lost it's savor. If it were possible to look forward to feeling, I would. But there has been no touch since the light left. Hands groping in the dark, I can scatter pebbles and dirt before me and sense a warmth radiating off the earth's surface from ages past. The oldest of the old people would talk about the burn of the object they called "sun", telling us children we were better without the sting left from exposure. They expected the bandage could cure the pain we felt from a wound of never having breathed "sun" warmth. Aris holds on to my ankle while I grip Pheo's. Our chain is similar to most connections in this world: we forge them out of fear of loss. Without the fear, we would have had no loss of anything. Not sun, not grass, not color.

WORK IN PROGRESS.

His Walk

Some people can be spotted a mile away and recognized for their hair color. Others voices cue in listeners from all corners of the room by their distinct tonal quality. Although he doesn't know it, a friend of mine is best noted for his walk. Anyone who has half a brain in their head will look at this poor, unfortunate, bloke and automatically assume he is lost. With his head tilted toward the ground and his hands packed neatly into his pockets, he is the epitome of a damsel in distress, severely in need of saving but lacking a hero (or heroine?) to do so. If I saw my buddy walking on the street and I didn't know the guy, I would most likely stop in give the him some directions. Directions to the post office, directions to the vet- directions in LIFE! This chap's head is so turned around with the latest lie some idiot told him, his eyes seem to be permanently glazed over with a loss of consciousness, as if they are resisting everything he has ever known to be true. My friend's favorite past time is getting high on concepts understood by only the men sitting on cliff sides with their beards nestling the beds of eagle babies. Ordinarily, I steer clear of this sort of blatant nosey-ness. It's really none of my business if the dude takes life for a run and ends up winded, but I can't help thinking if no one else saves his broken walk, who will?

Pickles

Upon the window sill of our most visible front window sits a jar of pickles. Complacent as it may be, in the subtlest of forms it waves to all who pass our dwelling as a proud flag of estrogen shouting to the world, "Here resides women of the most feminine sort, quaking with the fear of an empty, unadorned window sill." Needless to say, this pickle jar of renown has a reputation which precedes it. People walk into our kitchen with painful disgust dripping from their countenances. Gazing at the main attraction, they ask, "WHAT is that?!" Often I feel inclined to tell them, "It is an unborn calf. I collect them and put them on display for psychological reaction." Being the polite person that I am, I bypass the opportunity and tell them the pitiful truth: the pickle jar is eye candy. It coincides with our decorative scorpion shot glass. Nothing like a pickle jar to ignite passion, stimulate happiness, and drain us of stress related ulcers. There is a certain humor surrounding the ugliest of objects.

Spare the 16 hours

A few years ago I found myself in a psychology classroom surrounded by the nuts of the universe. They riveted my attention to nearly everything. From the cause of my obsession with lampshades to the way I bit my nails until my fingers bled- there was just that: a cause. Honestly, did you know the reason you start to stumble and slur your speech at about three in the morning is due to the fact that every hour you are awake after sixteen hours of consciousness is the same as one shot of whiskey to your body. Spare me the sixteen hours fact and tell me why Pluto is no longer a planet. Who were the idiots that skewed my entire scientific up bringing? Not that I had much science in my system to begin with, but why ruin every kid's rendition of the "planet song" and break the Final Jeopardy question about the Mickey's dog/planet? I realize this kind of issue was something to fight about before now but it just hit me: what difference does it make?

Critical Theory of Life and Literature

You pull the trigger of your pistol, aimed at the man in the yellow hat. You hear a sound, and feel the jerk of the backfire. However, as a critical theorist, how do you know the gun went off? If everything is ambiguous and arbitrary, how on earth are you certain anything happened? Sure, the pistol is one bullet short. Yes, the man is on the ground writhing and screaming in pain. Your friend says, "Nice shot." How does she know the gun went off? All evidence suggests something happened but read Kalages, Lacan, Deridah...the pistol was an arbitrary symbol of Aristotle's second world of perfection. Nothing happened. Twenty to life because of nothing. (MY CONFUSION EXACTLY!!!)

Time

It never stops moving, never gets tired. Kills everyone and everything but gives birth to the new. I hate it for certain things and love it for others. It gives me sunburns, hips, and split ends. Some say it heals. What a lie. I say it is a brutal thing, moving with its own cruel intentions, fading memories I need to live on, never wavering, hitting those who notice it with fresh panic.

Paper Chain

You hang around me,
weight
of the world
dragging out darker dreams
I never knew existed.
A precipice dropping off
into forever.

Dripping in obligation
knocking blows within the
heart
while straining at the strings of sanity,
I wonder where you begin
and if you have
an end.

Who would have guessed
nature could provide
a vengeance fierce as
paper?