Daily Read

The graying man behind my dad
downs the contents of his martini glass
and says something to the waiter
I can’t hear.
Dr. Paris is talking to me.
“I hear you’re going to have
another visitor from Japan.
When’s he arriving?”
“Tuesday.” Her meal arrives.
She cuts into a tomato slice.
“How long is he staying in Vermont?”
“Seven weeks.” “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.” My root beer bottle is empty.
I pick up my water glass instead.
My dad’s talking about tiramisu
and African swallows
on Victorian postcards.
I let him sneak a bite of bitter cheesecake
and stare through the cataract of the sky.
Dr. Paris tries again.
“Caila and I saw MMU’s musical—“
“—Pippin—“
“a few weeks ago. Yes.”
“What day did you go?”
“Friday night.”
“Oh. I went
Saturday.”
“I guess we just missed each other.”
“How’d you like the play?”
“Kind of an odd plot, don’t you think?
I’d expected it to be
historical fiction or something.
I mean, I liked it.
But there was the stage manager and
people popping out at random times
and just general
confusion.”
“Yeah, I guess
there is.”
“What?”

AN: This is just a story I started one day, and I'm not really sure if I should continue it or not. Feedback is very much appreciated!
_________________________________________________________________________

The wind blew throughout the forest, grasping anything that it could with its ice cold fingers. The crescent moon high in the night sky cast an eerie light over the ground and caused long, dark shadows to stretch across the forest floor.

A girl in her late teens was crouched up in the branches of the a large oak tree, waiting for something. Her eyes were trained on the gap between two huge stones that looked as if the gods had placed them there as a gateway to the forest. A stick cracked soundly behind her, causing her to jump and snap her head around towards the origin of the noise. The darkness was all around her and felt as if it was pressing in on her eyes. She couldn't see a thing, and eventually she turned back around and looked towards the gateway once again.

A chill suddenly wracked her body, making her shiver in apprehesion. The icy fingers of the wind pulled at her clothes and ran down her spine. She quickly shook off the nervous feeling and continued watching, never blinking.

He was coming.

Out of nowhere, a black shadow seemed to emerge from the rest of the darkness. The putrid smell of blood and death rose up to meet her nostrils, adn she immediately covered her nose, trying not to gag. The shadow glided on. The cloak the shadow was garbed in fluttered behind him. The girl rolled her eyes. He always was one for the dramatics. A glistening, silver sword could be seen beneath the cloak, and a dark smear covered a part of it. Judging by the way the moonlight glimmered off of it, the girl was almost positive that is was the crimson life that had just been taken from the man's latest victim. She curled her lip in digust at the realization.

There’s something about slamming
into a wall repeatedly that
hurts. My shoulders are bruised
and the inside of my head is
mangled like someone’s been
suffocating me too long. I’m
slamming into this wall to
get out, or maybe I’m trying to
stay in. Maybe I’ve done
it a thousand times before and can’t
know how to do
anything else; I’ll do it infinitely,
this slamming, forever
plus some. Sometimes I can’t
tell.

There’s something about the
word “infinity” that’s daunting. Infinity
is as high as we go;
children seem to be the only
to do the unthinkable
in that
intense moment of
childlike passion where the
one child says to another,
“Infinity and
one!”

If infinity is a cycle, I’ve got
to break it. If infinity is
the sagging clothesline in the
backyard, I’ve got to
straighten it. Or if infinity is
something else, it needs
to be nothing because

I’m tired and I’m beat and I’m
not sure why. My vision’s been
slanted lately, but
maybe that’s not just
me.

I’m not generally a follower,
but in all honesty,
I’ve been losing time
lately.

I need it back.

I’ve been spending more time
as a guest lately,
and less time as myself.

And I need it back…

So this isn’t saying
goodbye, really, because

It’s not like that.
Not exactly.

I'm taking a break for a while.

(This is probably not exactly surprising since I seem to be following a pattern. I doubt I'm gone for good, however. Autumn holds great promise and YWP has been--and continues to be--amazing.)

See you all on the flip side,
MM

Holly used to be the girl who read on the bus
with wind-borne conversations raging
around her stiff-still body and
whipping her hair around her face. Now
she stares straight at the bus driver's
bald spot in the mirror and lets the
wind play with the wires linking her
ears and her ipod that's never turned on.
And she listens, hears and studies the
exchanges tossed from seat to seat
like an anthropologist watching the
habits of primates or an alien trying to
figure out how to possibly fit in.

"Are you drinking again?"
(My first reaction was to say
'Does it look like I have enough to time to drink anymore?' But I figured that would start a whole other conversation that I'm not willing to finish this early in the morning)
"No mom, why?"
"You've been falling asleep early again and if you remember last year...well, you did the same thing back then. I’m asking because I’m worried, you’ve been doing so well this year."
"I'm tired because I'm busy and I'm busy because I'm sober"
"Okay, that's all I wanted to know"
"Can I go now?"
"Yeah sure, good luck at your track meet today"
"Thanks"
And with that, I shut the front door and walked to school
Where I started another busy day
All over again.

His eyes were wide
and his shirt was long
and he flicked his hair
off his face.
He's funny, they said
and perverted
and he had the look of an
ex punk rocker
still wearing black
eyeliner.
His eyes were wide
and his hair was long
and shaggy
and he looked at me
and I stared at him
as I walked down the hall.
He looked at me
and I saw
my thoughts mirrored
on his
face.

actually, the pessimist's guide to YWP

1: If you're new, please don't post bad poetry. We don't like it. We won't read it.

2: Don't just say you LIKE a piece. say why. We know it's good. Tell us how to make it better.

3: We really don't care what your dog ate last night. At least write a story about it, don't just POST it.

4: Don't talk about anything other than the topic, unless you're in a forum. It makes us regs pissed off.

5: If you have a specific goal for the poem, post it at the top, then we can suggest how to make it fit that.

6: We're really nice people. Please don't tell us we don't know what we're talking about.

7: GG is god. Respect him and at least TRY his suggestions. Generally, they're pretty amazing.

8: Don't have stupid competitions to make more posts. They're just that. Stupid.

9: Lists are always interesting. They introduce us to who you are.

10: We'd love for us all to be ONE BIG family. allow it. only... OUTSIDE YWP. meet in person, (in a public place) call each other, email, IM, whatever, we dont care.. JUST DON'T CLOG OUR FORUMS!

rant over. Please comply. thank you. much love.
Lili

I.
September was vaguely the colour of summer, and his hair was always shining in the sun, and things were easy and different. It almost seemed perfect. It could be one of those things that old women tell their grand-children it was so perfect, and I was not one to deny myself that. We walked in parks and laughed at the streams who watched us. We knew they would keep our secrets and couldn't see any reason not to skinny dip into their cold pools of water. They were really very refreshing, those streams. for a while, we picked up rocks to take home and remember each day, but that was pointless, and we both knew it, so we put them back and waited for them to turn into sand. It was blonde sand like his hair. It was just as dirty too.

II.
I once told him that the sky reminded my of time, because it was grey and went on forever and no one could ever change that. I guess it struck him as funny because he told me the sky could fit into my eyes and I had to disagree. Time could never be trapped like a fly stuck to a fly-paper strip hung form the ceiling of a horse barn. it wasn't that ignorant. It knew it had to keep going. If I could talk to time I would ask him to tell me what's happening. I'm sure he'd have an interesting story to tell. Maybe about Rommel. Maybe about the prime minister. I've heard things about that man, but only time will tell. But time is generally quiet. He's really very good at slipping by without being noticed.

III.

I.
He used to tell me about the way that rotting worms smell when they reach the top of the soil, crawling out across the pavement into puddles to squirm and wiggle with discontent at how they'd never make it across the road and how they would soon die there without friends or loved ones around to hold a funeral. It rained on Tuesday, and as I walked to the taxi, I put my feet in the empty spaces between the worms, trying hard not to step on them and put them out of misery. The school kids, in their rain-boots and rain-hats and rain-coats stomp into the puddles and trickling streams of water across the sidewalk. They step on the worms. I apologize for them. I'm sorry worms. You look so funny when you squiggle and squirm into a tiny wormy ball of pink flesh spewing guts full of dirt and rain water. The worms salute me as I walk by. They like that I don't step on them.

II.
He lived in the basement of one of those houses they have in bad gang movies, one where the trim on the garage matches the trim of the house, but only around the doorway, because the windows don't have painted trim at all. The house was sort a a forest green, like the pine trees that we used to dream about in Montana while fishing in the little stream behind our wigwam. It was a nice wigwam, and we watched sunsets from its doorway, stuck halfway between the Indians and Oregon or the new neon signs in Vegas, where we swore we'd go someday, even if we had to hitch hike. The sky was as pink as the trim on that house. Sometimes we'd go into the basement where he lived and watch films. Not good films. The kind of films that you get bored with half-way through and make you wish you had something better to do or to talk about. I once asked him why we watched them. He said because I couldn't keep him entertained. I knew this was a lie, but I let him carry on anyway. He enjoyed being right. I let him think so.

III.

Lady sighs out breaths
of surrender,
as the rain taps
across her skin,
washing away
the perfume,
curling her
hair,
dissolving
the make
up.

Mascara
runs down her face
in tears like
liquid ashes;
lipstick droops
off the rim of her lips
like wilting
rose petals.

Liquid soaks through
her clothes until
they become
transparent, until
the world can see
her scars,
shining
pearly white, and

the rain drips
into her eyes,
ears,
mouth

soul.

She's shivering
even though
the air is warm,
because she
knows that
as she lets the rain
wash her away,

it's slowly destroying
her puddles
of fake,
and

she finally
feels
beautiful.

My Burlington is the Burlington where
Wimpy forests can be found along the lake's backbone
And where private beaches are open to everyone.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
A friend's house is only a quick jog down a long street
And where the Shopping Plaza is seen as stores in the same area,
Not another rude development .
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I walk past building after building and that I know
My grandparents are friends with the residents inside.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
The swing sets are used by the big kids too
And the senior citizens really do bake cookies for little children playing in Ethan Allen park.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I can ride a plastic green bus to
Downtown where I can experience more than my suburban lifestyle
And still go home to it at the end of the day.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I want to spend my life.

The best part of the state house is the ceilings.

Sure, they've got great carpets. The paintings are elaborate. Fancy curtains hang everywhere. There's a swiveling rack of stamps on a desk in the house chambers. And there's, y'know, the government.

But the ceilings are awesome.

By the front of the house chambers there sit a line of plushy red chairs usually occupied by members of the Senate. They are now occupied by me. And, y'know, the other interns. I have a great view of all the representatives swiveling their swivel chairs and looking bored. One man in a bow tie has been talking about a forestry bill for half an hour now, his monotonous voice accented by whispering legislators. The intern two seats to my left is texting with impressive speed. The girl next to me is chewing gum that smells like leaves. I'm looking at the ceiling.

The entire expanse up there is painted white and elaborately carved. In the center there's an enormous flower. It must be eight or ten feet across--a giant upside-down white-painted ceiling daisy. Its petals curve threateningly downwards, as if straining to devour the pages seated innocently beneath.

The ceiling around it is in the timeless style of a slightly squashed waffle, decorated with a bulbous design like a fancy ribbon along the edges. At every intersection there's a bud--ready to sprout into a new massive rooflower. All around the edges are what appear to be lightbulbs encased in porcelain petticoats.

She found my
Poetry journal
With the softly torn pages
That holds what
Even I
Don't
Want to know.

I'm walking down
the hallway
there he is!

What should I do?
What should I say?
Should I do,
anything?
Should I say,
anything?

I don't do a thing
except panic
I dart up the empty stairs,
and rush past the skinny, yellow lockers
hoping he doesn't notice me,
hoping I may still have a chance
to hide somewhere
wishing I wasn't in that place,
at that moment,
wondering why I was

Now I'm safe,
in the library's quarters
as he walks by the window
I feel like a fool
I didn't do anything to acknowledge him
o, well.
guess have to wait
until next time we meet
the bell just rang for class

Day after
Day,
Night after
Night,
She sits
In the kitchen
And scrubs
The old pans,
Rubbing and
Rubbing,
Covering her skin
In fluffy bubbles
Until the
Skin is raw.

Hour by hour,
pot by pot.