It's a Intrinsic disease They told me, A unfortunate byproduct Of a Non-lucid mind. A mind of someone Who is discontent With the real world. Well, If that's the case, I don't mind Being sick. Because in a world Scarred by dark roads, Dark choices; It's okay To look up at the sun And imagine Happy little fantasies.
im not sure what this says about me, that im selfish maybe? but i saw you today, happy your feet seemed to spring back up the moment they hit the ground and a smile cut your face into two uneven halves and suddenly i wasnt happy anymore
There is art in my throat. It has clogged my airways and stolen my words. It continues to float on up, promising me beauty, but as I open my mouth or extend my hands to create, they expand.
The ideas in my brain run rampant and I debate whether or not the art or the artist is in control. Gripping me by the hair, my music jerks my head around like an impatient child pulling at the reins of a horse.
I saw a man once getting out of bed, pulling back his rumpled covers and dragging himself into the bathroom, stepping into the shower of his one bedroom apartment imagine his childhood tub with water beaded on its yellow-stained sides He showers quickly, lathering his balding hair with watermelon shampoo Turning the water off, he dodges the last ice-cold drips and wraps a towel around his middle Wiping the fog off of the mirror he flexes at it whispers
Could you play that one song? You know the one I’m talking about. You know, The one we blared from the car stereo, With all the windows rolled down so all could hear. The song we would play picking blueberries; In that all natural, Weed choked, Berry farm. I want to be reminded of the times I would pick four flats to your two. I want to remember the day Where I traversed the fields, To see where you were,
I looked at you with a smile It was a crooked kind of smile I waited... And waited... Waited some more.... But there was no crooked smile back Not even a tiny one So I just awkwardly walked away And I'm assuming you did too
Remember that hike? Where the three of us stood at the bottom Of a beaten path That was nicely laid out With stones and markers? Remember how we all laughed At the prospect of taking the easy way out, And took a path invisible to all others? A path hidden by Plants, Jagged rock faces, And lack of markers. If you fell, You’d have a bed of Vermont green to cradle you. Remember how when we screamed?
Staring her in the face seemed to be the truth, The belated and undeniable truth. Now don’t get me wrong, I love it I do The instant burn and flash in a loop. Though it can get old and tired and bored, The same thing over and over, the same old chord. Though when she stares me right in the face, I don't even flinch, no, I don't even pace. And she says ‘you needn't have fear’ I believe her, and invite her just a little bit near.
It wasn't much more than a quarter mile, so we decided not to drive, instead we raced like children. She slapped me on the shoulder and took off running. The words "tag you're it" rang through the air. So I chased after her across the meadow that lay between our current position and our grandmother's old house. As the game of tag progressed, we ran in loops and circles in order to catch and avoid eachother,
We have walked along the same path our entire life. Its always been straight with no twists or turns. Never once have we had to choose which way to go, there was never another way. Then the day came. A fork in the road. One veers left into the forest, while the other bears right leading to a city. We look at each other, unsure of what to do. Thinking we always knew how to stay together we nod and begin to walk.
(Illustration credit: Ava Kendrick, Waitsfield, VT)
The front porch, where Aunt June would greet us as we tumbled out of the old Subaru into the dry dust of her winding, country driveway. She would be sitting in her Adirondack chair drinking an iced tea and wearing her pink straw hat. It was always summer when we visited, always that squinty, humid kind of hot that only a popsicle and a kiddie pool could cure. Aunt June had both.
The kitchen, painted the same shade of blue as Cinderella's ball gown. Aunt June would tell me to fetch her some ice cubes for her tea and I would stand in front of the freezer with the door open, letting the cold air roll over my scrawny frame. There was no air conditioning in that old house. Aunt June always said the heat kept her joints from getting too rusty. Eventually I'd hear her call from the porch, "Anita, what's taking so long?" and I'd yell back, "Coming!" as I'd scramble to fill a glass with ice cubes. I'd pop one in my own mouth and crunch down, making my teeth ache, a price I was willing to pay to briefly escape the heat.
Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals and stay alive. They don't steamroll over people's lives, destroying political and social concepts all at once. They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts.
Long beyond the swollen, commanding flow of the Mississippi, in the far, unknown west, lies the quaint and hopelessly secluded town of Driftwood Springs, Wyoming.
Not much has changed since my departure, which may as well have been a lifetime ago. Orange-haired Margot waits at the Wild Cactus Diner for me; sitting behind the wheel of Dad’s once-scarlet ’72 Chevy. Waitress apron still on, her shift must have just ended. She grins, cigarette between lips, as I kiss her cheek and whisper, “Hello, little sis.”