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- Dec 28 Mon 2009 20:10
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Jonathan
- Dec 02 Wed 2009 01:04
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Morning when your eyes fell asleep
She had considered it before, yes, it had been a recurring thought in her mind, but never had she been so stirred by the dancing image in her head of a boyish, girlish figure whose tilt of hair tickled her lightly under her nose, perhaps causing her to sneeze into the sunshine, where she will finally, suddenly be awakened by the sudden wrinkle in her orientation.
The disorientation knocked her from writing- in terms of she's and he's at least, for in the future it will only be she and she, and that would be disorienting to the reader as well. But there she sat on the wrinkled flowers of her bed sheets, contemplating this lost figure of the "he" and the addition of the "she" when she simply decided that pronouns were nothing but pronouns, and people were simply people; love was just love, the sun still rises, and the day still ends.
- Nov 13 Fri 2009 20:06
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A wedding
She was sitting in the waiting room with a veil over her head and her dress overflowing her body like vines. Her friends and family had went out to welcome guests now and left her waiting alone, quiet enough for her to condense her thoughts. The six months after her engagement had flown by like a whirlwind, too fast for her to carefully consider anything else ever since she had said "yes"; the amount of preparation was overwhelming, and she had been too caught up trying to decide miscellaneous issues instead of determining whether she really loved this man or not, which was supposed to be a given in the first place.
She was sure of it at first, or else she would not have agreed. But now as she sat alone, finally a peaceful time ever since the rush of events, the dream she had last night was flashing in her mind like lightening, like thunder, like damage. She was prone to dreaming, but the past half year had wiped out her possible imaginations and flooded her with thoughts of wedding dresses, floral napkins and bouquets instead. Then the night before she was about to fall into the arms of the same man forever, she dreamed she was in love... with somebody else.
It all seems very silly, she kept telling herself that as she sat perfectly still staring at her readied reflection from the mirror. But the more she tried to make a big joke out of this the more it had bothered her. She saw the image of a man in her head, hazy and mystic, as if she was looking through a fogged up window, but she knew he was there. He was as real as anyone was, and their brief encounter was enough to mean the world. Nothing much had happened in the dream, they were merely taking a walk down a breaded path, hand in hand and esoteric as a night-time church; the whole occasion was silent but something was there that filled up the empty air with omens and suggestions.
The past three years she had been with her fiance were fun and jaded. They worked, traveled, and rested when they were worn. She was extremely comfortable with him and laughed often. She thought that was happiness and she thought that was love. But not once had she looked at him the same way she saw the man last night. After walking down the path they had halted and he had turned around to face her; she knew it as an instinct and felt it as a desire, she felt it in his gaze and saw it in his eyes although she could not see them, and she knew it was love, as descriptive and factual as it had ever been.
She was sure of it at first, or else she would not have agreed. But now as she sat alone, finally a peaceful time ever since the rush of events, the dream she had last night was flashing in her mind like lightening, like thunder, like damage. She was prone to dreaming, but the past half year had wiped out her possible imaginations and flooded her with thoughts of wedding dresses, floral napkins and bouquets instead. Then the night before she was about to fall into the arms of the same man forever, she dreamed she was in love... with somebody else.
It all seems very silly, she kept telling herself that as she sat perfectly still staring at her readied reflection from the mirror. But the more she tried to make a big joke out of this the more it had bothered her. She saw the image of a man in her head, hazy and mystic, as if she was looking through a fogged up window, but she knew he was there. He was as real as anyone was, and their brief encounter was enough to mean the world. Nothing much had happened in the dream, they were merely taking a walk down a breaded path, hand in hand and esoteric as a night-time church; the whole occasion was silent but something was there that filled up the empty air with omens and suggestions.
The past three years she had been with her fiance were fun and jaded. They worked, traveled, and rested when they were worn. She was extremely comfortable with him and laughed often. She thought that was happiness and she thought that was love. But not once had she looked at him the same way she saw the man last night. After walking down the path they had halted and he had turned around to face her; she knew it as an instinct and felt it as a desire, she felt it in his gaze and saw it in his eyes although she could not see them, and she knew it was love, as descriptive and factual as it had ever been.
- Nov 13 Fri 2009 08:39
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Taking off Shoes
It was already dark when she had came back to her room from the noisy city, her feet kissed by the afternoon rain and her make-up seemed to have made their way down their guarded positions by two inches. She flipped on the switch on the yellow desk lamp, then with one hand holding onto a cabinet, she struggled to pull off her boots with the other but the excess moisture between her socks and the leather seemed to have formed an inseparable bond. She stumbled for a few steps, almost enough to cross half her room, then finally chose to sit down on a chair. She propped up one foot, then with both hands, she grabbed the heel of one boot and pulled with all her strength. At first it did not budge, but after five seconds the boot had gave in at last and flew off her hands like a rocket, sailing through the air and landed on her freshly-washed pillow. She stared at her splashed pillowcase for a while, watching little mud spots emerge and sink in like buttons, then she thought of him. Not once had she spilled tears for him since his disappearance two years ago, but all of a sudden she cried; with but a dim light in her room and the other boot still firmly strapped onto her leg, she cried steadily as a wilting fountain.
- Nov 10 Tue 2009 04:49
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high heels
- Nov 09 Mon 2009 03:22
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wearing reign
It started with a subtle uncoil with the stitches that bound the shoulder strap and the purse together, except most of the times she had only paid attention to the shiny logo that pinpointed the existence of the purse. It was a purse she had received on her twenty-third birthday, a purse of refined quality and statement of her taste with a soft-coffee colored fawn skin and exceptional design. It had became much of a part of her and existed on every part of her house, from the kitchen counter to the stool, from the stool to the beige carpet. Until one day while waiting for a friend to arrive, she began to carefully examine the entirety of the purse again five months after she received it, cleaned out its guts, then discovered a loose brown thread whose one end was now visible. It was an unrepairable damage, for the fine craftsmanship was incompatible with any tailor shop that could possibly account for these amendments now.
At this point more care was given to the purse, and heavier objects were avoided of being put inside its body; she had taken out the unnecessary toiletries, old receipts, and various brochures that were handed to her on shopping days and also wiped the leather with a moisturized cloth which had restored much of its lost shine. On several occasions she had even personally held the purse with both her hands, as if she was offering some sort of sacrifice to gods in order to avoid further wearing of the strap. The purse proved to be quite enduring also, as the untangling had seemed to halt, and the strap seemed to have a hold with the remaining four lines. So the days wore on and slowly she had grown an immense faith on the persistence of the purse and began to restored all its past belongings. She threw the purse around, swung it clumsily around her shoulders and ceased all her past precautions.
One friday morning she had an appointment with a friend to stroll in the park with reddened leaves, and she had awoken twenty minutes late. After finishing all the essential means before leaving her house, she grabbed the purse that was hanging on the doorknob of her bedroom door, swung it on her right shoulder so violently that the body of the purse had struck her lower bag, and then it collapsed. The strap had finally been stemmed from its weakening roots and lay dangling on but one side of the purse like a limp neck, causing the organs to spill like a regurgitation; all the loose papers, loose change, pens and pencils and mirrors and palettes and even a two-day old sandwich scattered on the floor with irrevocable order and declaration that the reign of the purse had finally ended, with its incapability to maintain its citizens tightly, the breakage of the castle and a heart-broken queen.
- Nov 07 Sat 2009 04:42
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A Pretty Dish
I passed by a drunken man of candid sorts on my way out the door. He was lying in the small passageway large enough to fit his body, in a pool of sour vomit and leftover dinner, and I recognized him. I had known him as the rich playboy who splattered money lavishly and his women as well; they were always fancily made up with jewels growing from the creases between their fingers like bacteria, with smiles too pretentious for me but perhaps flattering enough for his like. I must admit I appreciated his current condition a lot more than what I was used to; there was something warmer and inviting as opposed to the usual feel of condescension I received from his throne. He was helpless and smiling unconsciously, and as I walked by him he had called my name to stop me, much to my surprise. I looked at him, eyes wide in wonder.
Thank you... for the pretty dish.
Thank you... for the pretty dish.
- Nov 01 Sun 2009 08:18
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Writing about writers
The leaves had made their way inside and it must be autumn. At first they struck her by surprise for they resembled splashes of blood on the cement floor, but on second glance she realized they were just leaves, brick-red leaves laying peacefully, a subtle sign of the cherry-colored season.
She played the more antiquated piano with the discolored keys in the practice room. There was a much newer, nicer piano in the same room, but she wanted the sour notes and the inharmony. She wanted all the wear and tear, the crack and the choke in the melody, and she wanted the piano to cry. She wanted some keys to die under her fingertips and not be able to rise again, and to hear the dull, echoing vibration involuntarily accompanying. Cries are not flowing kind of things...
- Oct 27 Tue 2009 07:48
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A beautiful reason
It's nothing like it.
Nothing like it when you listen to your favorite boy's favorite song, then the music echoes between your walls and finds a place in your heart. I think it's pretty cozy there.
- Oct 24 Sat 2009 05:10
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Fish
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It was until the man had accidentally kicked her foot that she noticed his shoes.
They sat across from each other on a train, and usually she does not pay particular attention to the people around her. It just so happens that he extended his foot a bit too far and bumped into hers, and thought that this whole thing would drop by saying Sorry about that.
It was until the man had accidentally kicked her foot that she noticed his shoes.
They sat across from each other on a train, and usually she does not pay particular attention to the people around her. It just so happens that he extended his foot a bit too far and bumped into hers, and thought that this whole thing would drop by saying Sorry about that.
- Oct 14 Wed 2009 03:00
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from a window
he fell like a feeble chair, wobbled for a bit, then collapsed.
with whatever weight bestowed upon him, sometimes all it takes is a breath of air
- Oct 09 Fri 2009 18:30
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the bridge
She stood by the entrance of the bridge looking aloof. It was almost noon on a weekday, and many people were crossing the worn wooden bridge. Businessmen in black anxiously checking their watches to make sure they were on schedule, children skipping across to picnic at the park, or scandalously dressed women attending lunch at fancy restaurants on the small island. The petite island was but a bridge away from the mainland and full of activities. None seemed to hesitate before crossing the overpass except for her. She knew it was perfectly safe even considering its age, but something in her mind stirred and caused her to ponder.
The city was hitting autumn and welcoming winds. The warm air flipped her hair with a gentle shove and finally brought her back to her senses. She had been standing there for ten minutes in a trance until the tails of her hair hit her face. She could not assemble nor recall the strange feeling that landed in her mind as she approached the bridge. It was like a weightless feather brushing against her heart, almost unnoticeable but tingling it ever so subtly. She shook her head slightly and prodded on.
