Tag: creative writing

Time

Time is seldom sober, and he trips a lot. He tried to pick me up in a bar once, and I told him I had a boyfriend. He didn’t know the boyfriend was poetry, but silence is sweet like fudge. Now, Time loops over my arms in an embrace, pulling me from my quaint little dollhouse – and I tell him I’m not interested. He slides his slick tongue in my ear, licking my discontinued brain, and whispers, “ I have my way with all of you eventually.” Gradually, the dollhouse recedes as I enter a place where Time is meaningless.

My Novella

The eccentric novella brewing and screwing her way through the sizzling synapses across my brain is hard to catch. Pick up your plot and follow me! The sun over my house judges my unproductive, polychromatic day. Language was my first love. I try to harness my words as they sparkle defiantly, trying to escape the little woman controlling my tongue, who snatches them up and places them on it to be conveyed. The novella, being an angry, unwilling confederation of words, tries to escape. She puts up a fight. She’s feisty. Still, the woman in my voice box, the one I abuse, dictates her from plot to syntax into the phone. Afterward, I answer the phone and hear the rush of my own blood, a private sea. And somewhere, the eternal hammering of nails.

Friends With No Benefits

Careful correlations kiss causation in the school bathroom. My youth was an opaque thing. It always is. In my eyes, many memories are stored alphabetically by aroma. I remember pencil sharpeners and friends made of knives, sharpening themselves and cutting into me. They told me the shivs were diamonds. I didn’t believe them, but they glittered, so I bled cooperatively on a table meant for autopsies.

Language

Language babbles like a brook in the snaggle toothed mouth of a baby, but pour like the falls from my cherry juice lips that shine with adoration so my soul mate can see himself in the gleam of my smile. Language smells perky and pertinent and penitent. She lures Silence to his death. Language belongs to no one, and so leaves me every day to rut in the autumnal mouth of another while my mind wanders over a plane of math so wild, imaginary numbers grow like brambles, piercing me. My pureed mind leaks out.





Nothing

I read my bones for answers to all my problems with my x ray eyes. In the hollow tree of winter, a raccoon and a plague of rose scented blood. Winter burrows into my name. Snow fills the chambers of my personality. Suddenly when I speak, hail pops out. My x ray eyes and cold hands pry the truth from the fingers of my enemies, who run a ghost factory in my yard. They are hiring – for ghosts. My eyes are glass anyways. Why not apply? I have lots of experience with zero.

Sex Red Phone

A sex red phone rings off the hook. My lipsticks paint a mural of youth on my face, while my Vitality goes out and lights the faces of younger women. It is true that I’m a candle, but I am also a c sharp note, highest octave. I am living in the light laced shadow of the triumvirate because I am too dappled with darkness to live in the likeness of goodness. The triumvirate of pain, peonies, poison. The mind is a cigarette machine. The phone is still ringing. Myself, age 22 on the end of the line, wanting to know if it all turns out okay.

Micro Fiction – My Grandma’s Trailer

I walk down the rickety lane to Grandma’s trailer, the Taj Mahal as we called it, and knocked on the peeling yellow door. It was a single wide, and the siding was coming off from a recent hurricane. The North Carolina humidity shimmered, speckled with mosquitoes. Then grandma opened, her expansive voice welcoming me into the marble foyer. As she closed the door behind me, I greeted the koi in her fountain.

“What brings you over, Cupcake?” she asked.

“I need to borrow a little TNT for my mom.”

“Ok honey. It seems like every day it’s something, which would be fine but she never returns anything. She still has my cyanide shaker and my mentrual map.”

Grandma takes off, surprisingly spry for a hip recipient, down the corridor on the left. She whisks past the library and the music room, the terrarium room and the aquarium room. She comes back with a carefully wrapped parcel and hands it to me gingerly.

“Be careful. Remind your mother Sunday night is dinner with Father Rohrer and the Zeitgeist of the 80s.”