The garage has been cleared for spring, hosed down and washed, bicycles on the front lawn flipped onto their handlebars and drying, rivers of lather down the concrete driveway and snaking through the tire treads of all the vehicles planted on its surface. The cars sit satisfied in the sunlight, waxed, shining, silver, black and red. The motorcycles lean casually on their kickstands, dusty and waiting. In July our grass will be brown, saturated and scratchy. In May the sunlight is still something it’s missed since autumn and it drinks it in accordingly, appreciative, and greener for it. The crabapple trees near the street have started to bloom. They will for two weeks, first peppered with white blossoms and then covered entirely until the leaves are lost behind them. Then they’ll fall, only some days later, all of the flowers lilting down and laying over the grass. The breeze will take them early, sometimes, so that the blossoms fall before being a part of the tree’s summer coat, and it brings them over the driveway. One flower falls while I’m watching and drifts over, circling me at the top of the driveway where the garage meets it at its open door, adjusting and polishing steel-toe boots made for an eleven-year-old’s foot.
After a second it moves to the bulging headlamps of the yellow Ferrari Dino, to the top of its smooth and earnest eyes, landing just above the wheel-well on the front left side. It lingers for another second or two. It’s taken again by the breeze, taken in by the motorcycles, surveying the group, and then it moves again, slowly, to my father at the edge of the driveway near the street, cranking the throttle of a small, white dirt bike and trying to keep it running.
The blossom catches the exhaust pushed from the tiny bike’s tail pipe and darts away, high up and over the house to the backyard.
I blink, watching my father waving and telling me to come over while he’s got it running. My gaze shifts back to the boots, never used, my hand still running a cloth over their surface again and again, finding spots on a pair of boots that’d never seen dirt.
“The boots are fine, Alex! Let’s give this a try.” He said.
It was a Christmas present. I’d wanted it. I’d asked for it. And now I have it. At the back of the garage it’d looked almost meek, shy and reserved behind all those bicycles propped up against it. Sitting there it looked tame, friendly, like it might bring us both somewhere interesting. But it’s something frightening, I realize, unused for too long. An anxious child. I sympathize.
[I wrote this years ago after attending a writing conference. I can't say where the inspiration came from, but I just wrote and wrote and this came out. Also, my penchant for cussing tends to come out in this piece, and while I'd edit it out, it would feel a bit fabricated. It currently sits as a nice reminder that, while characters may certainly cuss in their regular dialogue, it may not fit the mood or direction of a piece.] Night 1 The dim light in the last room of the hallway lights nothing but the light-skinned figure of a lady. She’s but a corpse; skin drawn and dry, eyes shallow and shady, cheekbones that jut like crooked mountains, face with simply the expression of no feeling. They all appear like that, she’s nothing special. She’s just another one of the useless brain-dead bodies of a person who used-to-be. Patients with a family that had too much patience to realize the predictability of a failure; they just kept pouring money into a project of revival that was destined to fold. Pennies and dollars that could prove worth for the surviving, but had been chosen to uselessly preserve the dead.“Fools,” he mutters. “Just let her die.”He has worked at the hospital for close to fifteen years, never rising in station, nor declining, but then, what is there to fall to? He was only a janitor: a simple, isolated, uneducated twit who couldn’t accomplish a thing outside the obligations of his work. What was there to accomplish anyway? Being a janitor for fifteen years doesn’t exactly grant you many possible avenues of adventure. Nobody noticed anything exciting about him; he was just Tim the Janitor.Working six days a week, nine to ten hours a night left little time for anything else. On the rare days that he had off he would just relax at home and drink a beer, watch some Television, or just sit and brood in his dreams of happiness. Nothing these days, it seemed, grabbed him by the collar and really made him happy.When he first started working at the hospital he was told never to look at the clipboard hanging on the ends of patients’ beds. He was told that not only was it to secure privacy, but it creates a connection between himself and the patient, and strict professionalism and distance from a victim was the best way to avoid any hardships. These hardships being tough decisions made even harder by a direct connection, or holding onto a victim longer than the recommended time because of a false hope created by a relationship. Doctors were hard-asses that at some times looked heartless, but that was far from the truth. Being in such a profession held an obligation of conduct, regardless of what the individual thought.He is not an alcoholic, and neither depressed, he’s just simply existing, nothing radical about his way of life. Unfulfilling, as it was, he still can’t do anything beyond simply living. His life is robotic and strict; schedules never changed.After he finishes emptying the garbage he pulls out a small rag from his cart of cleaning supplies and begins wiping the desks an
The theme isthere, nothing written happensof the pines. From the homesthe fall of an ordinarykind, inhabited and tedious that the pagan isby nature one. Music didnot insist on the smallestnumber, insteadan empty world, thishallucination just asold the wisdomof a youngtree. What I hear isdemented, ormore politely,one thing.
Today's writing prompt: Describe your remedy for a 'case of the Mondays' (i.e grumpy, lethargic).
One of my least favorite phrases (and I thank 'Office Space' for this) is "Somebody's got a case of the Mondays!" Or some variation on that. I find that 'case of the Mondays' feeling can come any day of the week. Sometimes it is because I am too close to Monday. A Sunday night can sap my will to accomplish anything or to even be happy with creation just as much as Monday morning. Other times it is because I am not far enough in the week from a Monday. For whatever reason, waking on a Wednesday and realizing that I still have 3 full days to put in before it is Friday evening can be more disheartening than a Monday with the entire week stretching out in front of me.
In order to counteract this displeasure with the existence of Mondays, or days that feel like Mondays, I find that making lists can help. If I can find a way to keep busy and accomplish some of the things that I need to, I can at least feel the day was not a waste. While To-Do Lists do not sound much more exciting than the realization it is not, in fact the weekend any longer, it helps me to focus on the fact the weekend is coming again. I love to cross things off of lists. The act of doing so is almost better than knowing the job is done. It is the physical evidence that even if Monday has me down and out (or Wednesday as the case may be), I still can accomplish the tasks at hand.
These To-Do List items are not necessarily the things I have put off until Monday, but maybe the things I could not enjoy until Monday. Instead of making the To-Do List as dreaded as the actual tasks on it can be (such as vacuuming - the worst chore in existence), I make sure to write down the things I want to do as well. This can be something like getting coffee with a friend, getting a new book, buying a bottle of wine, or watching a movie. I still did something, I accomplished a goal, I get to cross it off. Take that, Monday!
I have found that by adding at least one reward aspect into a To-Do List, it adds purpose to my day in that it is both something to accomplish and something to enjoy. That way, when I do get to that task which is vacuuming or equally unpleasant, I know after that I get to do something I wanted to do. The time goes by quicker that way and at the end of the day, I get to cross that day off and hope the next one is not another Monday.
While today is Tuesday, I felt that this prompt was apt as I felt as though I had two Mondays this week. The above are my thoughts on how I approached today and yesterday. Here's hoping tomorrow is actually Wednesday.
tendered flesh where your
found my skin—
[jaw lines, joints, appendages twixt]
indistinct regret as my
turnt my chin.
reminiscent of your essence,
everpresent in all my recollections
seeps between discretion.
you linger like a dream
lining my subconscious,
you stick to my clothes—
[jeans dirtied, hair tousled]
you re-emerge in inhalation and contemplation;
disrupt the surface with ease.
the smudges left,
the rubber burnt,
the charcoal scent stains
in a chest pit;
fueled with every
the skin-to-skin sensation
and each beat accelerated—
a feather-lined stomach
wont to sway in anticipation
stays its state
as if it were expected.
and to lie beside
is more than welcoming,
to sit with a firelit
until the morning; tempting.
loyal like a dog,
loyal to a fault,
if you've never worn my boot
don't judge the way it looks
it's been from here
to hell and back
and it still holds my foot.
it's tattered, torn, and shredded;
ripped from seam to seam,
but you'll never wear these boots
If you'd known what they have seen.
From broken hearts
to shattered dreams;
To all the times I'd hurt so badly
I'd only want to scream
To things I've said
and all I'd done wrong;
to all the places
I no longer belong.
To all the people that I had hurt;
I'd take back all that dirt!
But we're only given one pair
to last us through this walk ahead.
So wear 'em proud and do 'em right
or these boots will find you dead.
So, if you've never worn my boot
don't judge the way it looks
it's been from here
to hell and back
and it still holds my foot.
this piece is a week-long collaboration between katie & I. there had been virtually no prior planning, save for an agreement to compose a fictional piece and to write from separate character perspectives. I portrayed liam, whereas she portrayed ethan.
For William Blake
with eyes of struggle
watch the wind blow history
from limb to limb
as experience foliates
leaves fall to deteriorate
in the soil of the retina
to plant innocence
in blooming vision
as the future oxidizes
events start to accumulate
in the wind breathing on my limbs
This Poem is about many tings. Fire, Dancers, Performances.But it can be interpreted many ways. Tell me how you see it, and why.
P.S. I wrote this in poetry class in high school, and I need some real feedback on this. This is my favorite original piece so far, and I want to improve it. Thanks for the help everyone!