… Well, I took a knife and I… You know those do not remove under the penalty of law tags they put on mattresses? Well, I cut one of them off! Yeah, I gotta real bad temper.
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11 Literary Blips Accidentally Brought To You By NyQuil & Whiskey
I crawl and weave my face through the ferns. The moon is so close and bright that I have to wear sunglasses. The dragons of the western hills throw their guttural howls across the landscape. The noise helps my mission. It keeps me stealthy. I make my way quickly, but with a conscious effort to hold back from hyperventilating. If they hear me I’ll get caught again. One more time and they’ll send me away, but not the kind of away I’m trying to get.
My tiny face smiles as it travels up into the air and explodes like a firework over all the patrons of the local amusement park. They open their mouths and stick out their gross black tongues to catch my particles like snowflakes. The lucky ones do, and it nourishes their souls. The unlucky ones just get back in line to ride their favorite rides again. The lucky ones do that too.
In front of her parent’s house, a young girl sits on the cement and feeds vodka to a salamander. This is the seventh time this month he’s been drunk. It’s the only thing that is fighting back the infection. His wife hates him when he’s drunk, but is glad that he’s not quite dead yet. It’s not easy being green or adapting.
I don’t speak the language, but I can see their hurried and frantic faces. They run up and then down the stairs with their empty luggage and hurl it into the street. They must be expecting something, but I’m not really sure what. They wait and wait. I watch the nothing that happens as they get sadder and sadder. It’s been this way for years, but maybe tomorrow will be different.
Mr. Lindenson is a professional buttoned up and suit tied senior partner at the prestigious counting company that operates from the topmost floor of the last remaining skyscraper in the upper west side. The power flickers, but he can count without machines. Although, there isn’t much left to count, and what is left there isn’t much of - like skyscrapers in the upper west side for example.
Two Tuesdays ago I was shirking responsibilities under an apple tree while thinking about things. If a horse falls and breaks its leg, it gets shot in the head to death by bullet. At the end of that thought, an apple fell. I picked it up and ate it. If only apples had legs to break. I could build a gun to kill those useless fallen apples.
We must have hit a bump. It felt like a hard stone speed bump, although we were cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet. The dawn or setting sun was murky orange through the clouds. I’ve been on the sky road for so long I’m not certain if it’s early or night. It’s definitely one of those. I can tell something is about to happen. Everything does.
If she can hold still her left eye just right, the sanctuary is visible through the crack of the door. It’s 4:15pm which means he’s coming with his brother to pray. She likes watching them pray the most because she knows they mean it. They feel it as the myriad of color from the stained glass pours over the room. They feel it as the wine bottles are emptied into the tiny plastic cups. They feel it as the hymns bounce off the aging walls of this house of worship.
On the edge of the desert where the canyon meets the sand, that’s where they build the fire each night. Gathered around the writhing pile of flames, their eyes burn into each other from across the circle until the cold chokes out the last ember. Then they stand and leave the canyons and the sands until the darkness comes again.
The arm of the green corduroy sofa that is furthest from the door has an indentation exactly the size of Harold’s face. After school each day, he slips under the fence and through the always left unlocked side door to the kitchen where he pours a rainbow bowl of cereal. Ten minutes after finishing it and ten minutes before his favorite program is over, he always slumps over and drifts away from his perfect little crater.
It’s difficult for them to breathe with how much they are kissing. Sometimes they’ll sneak in some crisp oxygen from the sides of their mouths as the season changes from fall to winter. Other times they’ll pull in the pre-breathed air from the depths of each other’s bodies as spring sets in and the flowers bloom. Their faces are pressing and turning as the summer sets in. Their lips are full and fuller as the leaves begin to change. Another year passes by around them with and without them.
STRANGE NEW LIFE
I have a good job filled with cleaning up dogs blood. I’m just a child with proclivities toward positive thought. So many stars can’t be seen and are nameless. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but I try. I do try. I do try.
I ride my bike through the storm in the morning. The clouds are thick with the aimless kind of the future I want. A new machine has evolved to subdue me, it cries out just to use me, but I fight. Yeah, I fight. I will fight.
I love the funky flavor when I face my fears and peel back the derangements of reality. I can’t make up the normalness that never fails to amaze me how freaky strange the world can be.
I take vacations from dealing with demons. I don’t mind the work, but I’m lazy every chance that I get. Come with me down to carnival city. I may not be pretty, but I’m funny and fly. I can fly. I can fly. I can fly.
Pace yourself if you’re in for the long run, or muck it up cause chances are you’ll die anyway. Although, statistics say that you’ll wake in the morning. You should heed all the warnings, but still dance. Take a chance. Take a chance. Take ugh.
It’s about animals. This song is called Giraffe. Me and my friend Angel wrote it.
Every so often I wake up to find the air is still and the morning dust is thick. It’s filled with flakes of history, with all the particles of my past. It’s piles of skin and fingernail clippings and feelings of if only. It weighs me down so heavy it’s difficult to rise. I can’t easily wipe it off the counters when I’m through cooking eggs. I can’t simply stab and cut through it to glimpse the future.
if I use all of my strength to jump and dance and smile and throw myself against it, all the pieces of negativity will budge. If I push more, they will flip. They’ll turn just enough for me to see things another way. I’m no longer focused on the teeth of wolves. Instead, it’s the back of my neck that begins to spike with a fervor for what’s to come, the wonders I can build, the destiny I have the power to forge. I take control and choose positivity and happiness. I move forward, for this is my only life.
Every frame of the movie.
This is a day that I’ve never feared, and I don’t feel scared, but I sure feel weird.
I never walk alone and think of all the empty words, or wonder when the day will break or when the tides will turn.