Friday, December 27, 2013

A Photo From Kirkland (Gaia Visits)

With my mom, she
peels potatoes downstairs. 
And we're in Kirkland, fingers locked
from peach smoothies
because the Book Thief wasn't showing. 

Above her natural
scarf and jacket, she dons white
Beats. Talking to my Tante
and laughing nearby
Gaia is here
for a few weeks. 
I find myself today
rainbow and glass
aside from khaki.

Just like Tante, Gaia 
doesn't mind her ecology professor
and because of that, I 
don't either, like my mom's biochem nutcase. 
Mom and Gaia are
twins and a Virgo
with Rick and
I, the Aries one of us. 

She kneels before the
On her jeans
(prayer rug)
She takes a picture. 


Thursday, December 26, 2013

Omen by Sekiu

Wrote this a few days ago; It's going places.

For thirty miles, the hills were bare. The highway, laden with remnants of a Friday morning snow, maintained twenty-foot visibility through the thick fog.
Thirty miles ago, there had been trees. They were smashed together, a yellowish moss leaking out of the only divide. Along the stretch, the cedars had been assimilated into rows, growing smaller and smaller until there was only brushland speckled with green. And then none. The barren ex-beauty slapped me in the face, hard.
As I got farther from civilization, the barrenness was greeted by static silence from the radio and the slapping of the wind through the open window. I didn't care how my nose stung from the winter temperature; I needed noise.
Luckily, there was a single scream ahead. A gasp. The subtle quieting of my engine. A single home stood, supports half-exposed in the torn-up nothing. Its shutters had been hastily put down, the door (having fallen) leaning on the front porch like a person would if *their* forest was to be decimated.
The scream was half-covered by a black tarp, the wind having pushed it aside to reveal the shrill cry of protest. It was in white spray-paint, carefully written on the wet board. I stopped and stared, putting together what little of the letters were at my disposal. A single word was written, creating a streak of fire within the nothing.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Taking the Jump - Story 1

I had a story starter a little while ago that I had made up. I'm currently trying to write as many flash-fictions as I can to this prompt until I come up with something grand. Here's my first attempt.
"I don't know you," Valentin laughed, scratching his stubbly chin. On his shirt, he had pinned a folded map covered in red dots. Upon closer inspection, Daniel realized that the dots followed several cross-country highways starting somewhere near Chicago, totaling to two thousand miles. He smelled of days and days. Then came the question, "You wanna jump?" He stood a little taller than Daniel, hair that could have been combed sticking out from under his helmet.

"You have breakfast yet, primo?" Daniel laughed. The guard's expression was pained; Daniel snatched Valentin's sleeve and used him as leverage to get over the edge of the Needle. The two were sent spinning, and were far enough away from one another in time to release both parachutes. Daniel glanced forward, glaring wind-slapped into Valentin's Kodak camera. The ground hugged his soles.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

We Were Kids

"Think it'll snow today, Kyle?" My mother picks my friend and I up from school as it gets colder. We climb into the car - I in the front, and Kyle in the back - and he sighs.

"I dunno," he says, "Either way, heard the Pass was great." There is a juice box-sized carton in the cup holder. It's chilled tea, but Kyle never liked it. I plunge in right away, not caring whether or not I'd get sick from drinking too fast. The air grew colder.

"Would you guys like hot chocolate tomorrow?" My mother asks, "I know this one place on the way." I smirk.


Kyle and I were eight. Then we were nine, ten, and eleven. Dylan, his little brother, grew from four to seven. When it would first snow, we'd all meet in Derek's backyard, a place covered in patches of snow and bits of dry, forested land only a few square feet large. The three of us would run about, establishing good places for hiding out and stashing snowballs. We'd then set time limits on Kyle's iPod, probably just five or six minutes, and "share" Dylan's extra help as we hid and threw snowballs at one another. The first year, I climbed over the fence myself, getting in trouble and grounded for a week.

The next year, Dylan and I teamed up for a whole ten minutes, beaning Kyle with the snowballs quite efficiently. That was followed by the dog in the following year. The last year that we had played in the snow, we had all gotten too cold. That was the day that Kyle had taught me to play video games.

Then - BAM! - middle school happened. Kyle's family got a divorce, and Dylan started to get more of his own friends. I'm now thirteen, and I watched the fence last year for several hours.


"I'd love some," Kyle laughed. I swear I saw snow.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

They Wanted Morbid Poetry

"You're so serious, Red," Cathy noted, running her hand over my paper, "I never imagined something so...bright and happy coming from that, but look at it!" I blushed, taking the paper from her. I silently left, and she didn't even turn to wave.

This poem is morbid
Their expectations to mime
They wanted confirmation
This poem has rhyme.

My converses
Propped up on the chair nearby
Are the color of vomit

Three hours stale.


Wednesday, December 4, 2013

An Observation from Science Today

There are three of them; They huddle around a computer, somehow out of the teacher’s view radius. Miley Cyrus has become the center of attention, belting into Calvin’s* headset loud enough to turn the buds into speakers for the surrounding three. The teacher’s watch beeps, casting silence among the classroom of computers borrowed for the day, mind the singing and anxious whisperings of the corner-bound wedgies mentioned before. 

Calvin’s pretending to be a good boy, I like to muse; He’s wearing a shirt and tie, black slacks, and fresh-oiled shoes, as the glare depicts. Yet, he’s just as much of a rascal as the rest of them, mind his ability to maintain politeness as needed. He as well wears a pink bow tie. Typical.

They're good boys, today
A pink bow tie, shoes
freshly oiled like their hair.
Miley's attending
the awards and the basketball
festivities, as she is.
I cover my eyes 
with the screen and formulas
They call me
goody two-shoes.