tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22297678182324237002024-02-07T11:22:54.902-08:00Idle ScribePoetry, short stories, and other such creative endeavours.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-44744486620299046672011-08-20T15:26:00.000-07:002011-08-20T15:26:40.800-07:00Bella's Song<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/AHI5fTUE4RU" width="420"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-88086557643110844552011-04-20T18:36:00.001-07:002011-04-20T18:36:24.726-07:00Baby birdDon't give up on me just yet.<br />
Baby birds can't fly from birth,<br />
You know,<br />
And I am learning.<br />
<br />
Every feather quivers, when I shiver in whatever weather wuthers round my mother while she feeds me and my brothers.<br />
I want to wing it with her but my withered wings can't cover all beloved winds I covet<br />
- Like a lover I would love it - but I'm not capable of it.<br />
May I never see another day<br />
May mother take my wings away<br />
If I don't learn to play the wind<br />
So don't give up on me just yet<br />
I swear I'm learningAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-52611874058872233192011-04-19T05:45:00.001-07:002011-04-19T05:45:44.186-07:00KitesMaybe we are like kites<br />
And it would be as sad for us to escape<br />
As it would be if we were to give up.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-33322996629174405812011-04-17T15:45:00.000-07:002011-04-17T15:45:01.856-07:00MeanderIt's hard to leave sometimes<br />
All peoplefull and hectic and<br />
Like a warm bath I have to<br />
Heave myself out<br />
Leave<br />
Cool down outside and I<br />
Go for a walk and my<br />
Shadow paints the ground<br />
It can get in the locked park<br />
Runs over the flowerbeds<br />
Climbs trees I can't don't won't climb<br />
I used to do this all the the time<br />
That's why it's mine<br />
I think I can hear people talking<br />
In the grass centre of the park<br />
Maybe they think I'm walking my dog<br />
(I wag my tail at that)<br />
I know that the moon is copper or bronze<br />
And I know the fences don't apply<br />
And I know they will ask me why<br />
Why I went wandering<br />
And I won't say how nice it was to walk in a straight line.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-22151651496440953132011-04-14T16:02:00.001-07:002011-04-14T16:02:49.677-07:00Roath parkGrey sky. Swan wing<br />
(thunderclaps against water)<br />
ash and blossom<br />
petal concentrics on the glass.<br />
<br />
Lake<br />
lake is of a moment<br />
willowdipped fingers<br />
<br />
and more every<br />
Time<br />
stands still<br />
and more<br />
lakeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-90598619016979849012011-04-13T10:00:00.000-07:002011-04-13T10:00:55.892-07:00Three poemsI learned to walk the tightrope<br />
With ghost feet.<br />
Walking the line on cold toes<br />
From up here you all look like gods<br />
Like warm legends<br />
Blooded and brilliant.<br />
At least I can keep an eye on you all<br />
And at least I don't f <br />
<br />
~ ~ ~<br />
<br />
Live happy ever after, somewhere far away from me,<br />
Somewhere you can love each other well and I won't have to see.<br />
I'm sorry this is bitter but I'm trying to be kind,<br />
'Cause even though she has your heart I know I'm on your mind.<br />
<br />
I know I'm on your mind the same way you're always on mine.<br />
I don't read too much into how you text me all the time<br />
But you make your feelings clear with every single thing you say,<br />
So go live happy ever after, somewhere far away.<br />
<br />
~ ~ ~<br />
Dreadlocks<br />
Are pretty terrible.<br />
Yes they are.<br />
They may look cool in theory<br />
But in practise they are a bit gross<br />
And frizzy.<br />
I'm really sorry guys.<br />
Don't be offended<br />
I think you're awesome<br />
But I am so excited about the day you eventually cut them off.<br />
Other hairstyles are available<br />
And infinitely more caressable.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-17954692834207139752011-04-10T14:49:00.001-07:002011-04-10T14:49:54.577-07:00Bonfire in a binHungry arms lick the bin<br />
And I think for a minute that they reach for me<br />
To pull me in,<br />
Climbing up the wood,<br />
Spitting sparks in spite<br />
The planks ignite.<br />
It hates me, I think.<br />
I watch in wonder at the brightness,<br />
Fire flung in fury, cursing my name<br />
The same flame that killed countless of my kind, kept many alive too.<br />
Destruction is its duty<br />
And I am duly consumed by its beauty.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-88239243549753709702011-04-09T14:51:00.001-07:002011-04-09T14:51:47.424-07:00LandWe are all african, but I don't feel it.<br />
I come from the secret garden, <br />
That lost orchard-England of petticoats and farthings,<br />
Of starlings and strawberries.<br />
We are all young, but I don't feel it.<br />
I know the old forest in my bones, the boar and stags<br />
and<br />
Stages of clearing clearings.<br />
I know the huts and houses, horses and hounds that bent to our iron and will and still I feel the steel of what we are<br />
Man works by hand and works the land, I understand.<br />
We are all now,<br />
But I don't know it. All times are mine.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-28467695321804348472011-04-08T16:20:00.001-07:002011-04-08T16:20:18.903-07:00FINISHED!YES<br />
I heard you<br />
The first time<br />
You told me<br />
To pick up the laundry and pick up the pace and tidy my bedroom and reach out to space<br />
"Work hard, and make your future fall in line"<br />
I heard you.<br />
The first time!<br />
I appreciate encouragement,<br />
And I admire your drive<br />
But why've you made it your mission<br />
To make me thrive?<br />
<br />
I can't poem, I have alcohol in me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-37663072972712233552011-04-07T16:40:00.001-07:002011-04-07T16:40:56.503-07:00Scars and wrinklesLife has played games with my skin<br />
Kept notes on it<br />
Left memos: oh by the way<br />
You fell and you bled here.<br />
You grew too fast.<br />
You burned and were scarred. You hurt and were scared. <br />
You learned<br />
At last<br />
I've turned into a notebook<br />
Or the back of an envelope.<br />
Life has made maps of me.<br />
I said I'd die unblemished,<br />
But tattoos chose me,<br />
Piercings found me<br />
(thumbtack in my palm,<br />
One prick requiring another in my arm to stave off tetanus)<br />
So now I am covered with story,<br />
Unchosen glory,<br />
And every section's gory imperfections<br />
Serve as answers to my questions.<br />
Life's little lectures as living reflections of<br />
Who I have been until now,<br />
Somehow.<br />
And sometimes when I'm looking in the mirror<br />
I see glimmers of the woman that I'm one day going to be.<br />
Neat crow's feet to remind me<br />
That laughter lies behind me<br />
It's lined me already.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-91370830435304452332011-04-07T02:58:00.000-07:002011-04-07T02:58:02.008-07:00Day 6 is a sorry oneSorry it's a day late.<br />
I'm not the most reliable<br />
Person in the world,<br />
A fact that's undeniable<br />
However hard I try<br />
I find I'm always liable<br />
To postpone and procrastinate<br />
Until it isn't viable.<br />
<br />
Sorry this is late,<br />
I got a bit distracted<br />
And the words inside my head<br />
Just couldn't be extracted<br />
And this one-a-day idea<br />
Has had some worth subtracted<br />
But i've not packed it in this morning, I've acted.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-22068051678907183982011-04-05T14:18:00.003-07:002011-04-05T14:18:32.179-07:00"You guys is dicks, I have untold value."They've tried to sell me, so they say,<br />
Debating my merits as table or whore.<br />
Claiming they've paid Jay to kill me:<br />
"For the right price, I'll do anything."<br />
"That's what his business cards say!"<br />
The crueler they are,<br />
The more crass and offensive,<br />
The closer we get as a group.<br />
I feel lucky to know people who'll ridicule and slander me<br />
The way this lot do.<br />
They're good people<br />
Once you get past the whole sex offender thing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-36595134782434072682011-04-04T12:23:00.000-07:002011-04-04T12:23:12.549-07:00DragIt's all a drag act.<br />
Fake femininity,<br />
Aspiring to maintain<br />
The dream of divinity<br />
Goddess, Oh limit me:<br />
Appearance, demeanour and voice,<br />
The pedestal trinity.<br />
I learn to sway the hips, to paint my lips,<br />
Extranatural<br />
Like a billboard larger-than-life.<br />
As long as you want me I'm worth it<br />
As long as I'm fake then I'm perfect<br />
Servicing standards unfeasibly high<br />
Oh woman, you're one when you learn how to lie.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-15182544261829436142011-04-03T15:53:00.001-07:002011-04-03T15:53:17.599-07:00The BassMost nights my line is "I can't dance, I'm fine" but tonight I can't stop 'cause this music is mine.<br />
There's a buzz to it.<br />
A fuzzy tremble-beat beneath my feet<br />
And with every fibre humming<br />
It's so sweet to feel complete in the movement, in a moment of becoming.<br />
It commemorates the muse in me,<br />
Amusing me:<br />
Are all the ways<br />
I jerk and sway<br />
A kind of praise?<br />
<br />
Especially I treasure the lack of inner pressure;<br />
I do it at my leisure<br />
My time<br />
My place<br />
My change of pace, this perfect space.<br />
The roar in the floor<br />
The call in the wall<br />
The bass.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-77955535581713216612011-04-02T12:16:00.000-07:002011-04-02T12:16:16.302-07:00Week starts againI’m afraid of the life I have built for myself.<br />
It’s left me with nowhere to go.<br />
The twist in my chest tells me so.<br />
I’m fighting the fright every sunday night.<br />
The terror takes hold of me then -<br />
And the week starts all over again.<br />
<br />
And there’s deadlines to meet<br />
And there’s errands to run<br />
I take too many breaks<br />
And I have too much fun<br />
There’s too much distraction from everyone<br />
I start making progress, I’m coping, and then<br />
The week starts again<br />
The week starts again.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-88157155217758681522011-04-01T04:33:00.000-07:002011-04-01T04:33:16.305-07:00Write A Poem Every Day In April: Invisible.Inspired by Taylor Mali's idea of writing a poem every day in April, and helped along by the high amount of poeming my brain's been doing lately, I thought I'd join in. I hope you like it! This first one's a bit negative, yes, but it works much better to music. I hope to get a video camera one day, then I can show you what it's meant to sound like! <br />
<br />
Over and under and round me and through me<br />
You never quite saw me, you never quite knew me<br />
I’m not blind, I know you’ve been flirting with fellas<br />
And yes I’m a lady, and yes I am jealous.<br />
It’s stupid, it’s pointless, it makes me feel foolish,<br />
But I think you knew this,<br />
Is that why you do this?<br />
I’m sorry<br />
I’m sorry<br />
You’ve made yourself clear.<br />
Not needed, not wanted, I’ll just disappear.<br />
Over and under and through me and round me<br />
Invisible just because nobody found me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-76791936757427621282011-02-23T07:23:00.000-08:002011-02-23T07:23:10.775-08:00ButterfliesI am here,<br />
And he is here,<br />
And something else is here too -<br />
That bungee jump, about-to-step-on-stage feeling.<br />
The crucial moment, fight or flight?<br />
The twisty, hopping, what’s-about-to-happen feeling<br />
That they call<br />
Butterflies.<br />
<br />
I am there,<br />
And he is there,<br />
And butterflies are everywhere their wings all tangled in my hair<br />
And, acting like I don’t much care,<br />
I dare to touch...<br />
But not too much.<br />
<br />
Synapses firing and failing, I’m flailing for something to say<br />
But “we never did too much talkin’ anyway,<br />
And don’t think twice,” ’cause when I do I run away<br />
And I want to stay.<br />
I kind of like this guy, <br />
<br />
But best I like the butterflies that tell me “Yes,<br />
Be afraid and Be alive and Be young for once.”<br />
The butterflies that cloud my eyes<br />
With sugar-gem brightness<br />
And almost hide that common sense is<br />
Telling me: maintain pretences.<br />
Warning me: don’t drop defences; you built the fences for times like this.<br />
<br />
So I’ll try and pretend that the thrill’s lost,<br />
That the butterflies died with the first frost,<br />
That the cost was too high.<br />
I’m trying not to show –<br />
Trying not to see those things with fragile stained-glass-window-wings<br />
Thronging the room from the back of my head to the front.<br />
<br />
So, I am there.<br />
And he is there.<br />
The butterflies are everywhere.<br />
And I’m still trying not to show – but no. I have to go.<br />
I walk home to a cold bed<br />
And turn it over in my head, the things he did and things I said,<br />
’Cause when you pin it down, it dies,<br />
And I must kill the butterflies.<br />
<br />
Now this is nearly perfect ’cause I don't know how to end it, how to make the flutters<br />
Still.<br />
But I will.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-2241490018471386882010-11-05T21:20:00.001-07:002010-11-05T21:24:57.820-07:00Alphabetical polygonsA likes B<br />
but B likes C<br />
(and has a boyfriend anyway, poor A).<br />
C likes D<br />
and D <i>likes</i> E,<br />
and E... well, I think he likes me.<br />
<br />
E is hot. I really would,<br />
but F's not over him. Well, good,<br />
because I'm still not over G,<br />
and I live with F, you see.<br />
<br />
Tonight I might have upset D.<br />
'cause E was cuddled up to me<br />
And I can't turn a hug away.<br />
(Oh. H was there; her ex is A.)<br />
<br />
I'm sure it's not too hard to see<br />
Why this is all too much for me.<br />
I'm tempted to walk out; forget<br />
The whole perplexing alphabet.<br />
<br />
Well. I hope I've made it clear.<br />
I'm simply wishing U were here.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/scribble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/scribble.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-37065595062353427282010-09-22T21:15:00.000-07:002010-09-22T21:15:00.558-07:00Another untitled loss poem.I waited up for you again,<br />
Another night. You never came<br />
To brush away the tears, and I<br />
So seldom cry<br />
<br />
but that's a lie I have to tell.<br />
I've tried, and learned, to hide it well,<br />
To push aside the pain and fear.<br />
You're still not here<br />
<br />
to pull me near and comfort me,<br />
And that's how it will always be.<br />
I can't take back a single day,<br />
And that's the way<br />
<br />
it is, they say. Perhaps it's true.<br />
They tell me what I ought to do:<br />
It's time to shed these grievances.<br />
Perhaps it is.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-62666267308925875572010-09-17T19:22:00.000-07:002010-09-17T19:23:54.660-07:00Facebook AnthemHey so GUESS WHAT! My housemate Ben and I wrote a song! And then we sang it! I played ukulele! He played guitar! Arthur held the microphone, it was MENTAL. (Shush, I'm overexcited.) Anyhow, because you're all so lovely and whatnot, here it is: the Facebook Anthem.<br />
<br />
<object data="http://boos.audioboo.fm/swf/fullsize_player.swf" height="129" id="boo_player_1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://boos.audioboo.fm/swf/fullsize_player.swf" /><param name="scale" value="noscale" /><param name="salign" value="lt" /><param name="bgColor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="FlashVars" value="mp3Author=Thiefree&rootID=boo_player_1&mp3LinkURL=http%3A%2F%2Faudioboo.fm%2Fboos%2F184069-facebook-anthem&mp3Title=Facebook+Anthem&mp3Time=02.14am+18+Sep+2010&mp3=http%3A%2F%2Faudioboo.fm%2Fboos%2F184069-facebook-anthem.mp3" /><a href="http://audioboo.fm/boos/184069-facebook-anthem.mp3">Listen!</a></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-37594250558324534302010-08-14T13:07:00.000-07:002010-08-14T13:07:01.436-07:00Upon the realisation it feels like my brain is two sizes too big for my head.Where did the day go? I stayed up 'til five<br />
'Cause being with people makes me feel alive,<br />
But if I don't sleep more I'll never survive;<br />
I don't have the drive or foresight<br />
<br />
To sort out my cycle and sleep in the night.<br />
Waking at 3pm doesn't feel right;<br />
I don't get much day and I'm missing the light,<br />
It's such a sad plight. I'm unhappy,<br />
<br />
My head always aching. It's easy to see<br />
That sleeping in daytime is not good for me.<br />
I'm turning nocturnal, a bad thing to be,<br />
I'm longing to see myself thrive.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-54409080736132031462010-08-03T14:45:00.000-07:002010-08-03T14:45:41.860-07:00MusingsI wrestle with the paper,<br />
Committing rubbish to it.<br />
I’m bloody good at what I do,<br />
So why, <i>why</i> can’t I <i>do</i> it?<br />
<br />
I cast my eye around the room<br />
In sheer exasperation;<br />
Nothing seems to answer to<br />
My plea for inspiration.<br />
I sometimes sit for hours<br />
(And that’s no exaggeration)<br />
Waiting for my muse to strike<br />
In tense antici...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/Dr_Frank-N-Furter1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/Dr_Frank-N-Furter1.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
... yeah.<br />
Calliope must admire<br />
My fervent dedication,<br />
But even if she does<br />
She doesn’t give an indication.<br />
<br />
I want to write a poem<br />
That will sweep across the nation!<br />
Something to evoke such grief,<br />
Or anger and elation!<br />
But instead I suffer,<br />
To my constant irritation,<br />
The ugliest of writer’s blocks –<br />
A lyrical castration.<br />
<br />
“Where, oh Muse, where are you now?<br />
Please end this mad frustration!<br />
Why not give me something here,<br />
Some cause for celebration?”<br />
But never does she answer<br />
To my plea for information,<br />
So I just sit and grumble<br />
At my lack of inspiration.<br />
<br />
I wrestle with the paper,<br />
Committing rubbish to it.<br />
I’m bloody good at what I do,<br />
So why? Why can’t I do it?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-80942732238417850102010-06-23T08:21:00.000-07:002010-06-23T08:21:58.322-07:00TriggerOh God, oh God, I take it. Cold and heavy and scary, so scary. He's fine, so I'll be fine too - except it doesn't work like that. He's fine so I'm more likely to make a Pollock on the wall. I can feel their eyes on me, hoping that I'll - oh God, no, don't think about that. I'm getting out of debt today, one way or another.<br />
<br />
He's fine so I'll be fine... the slaughterhouse goat. Instinct, stupid, stupid instinct.<br />
<br />
Shit, do it. My hand's shaking. The trigger reluctantly eases a few millimetres and Janey, we'll be ok. You'll go to college. Daddy said he'd provide for you, there when I held you for the first time, I promised.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid, and then I'm angry. You'd do this?! You'd make me abandon my girl? Fuck you, fuck you all! I see myself walking away, abandoning my investment. My family. I wouldn't make it to the door.<br />
<br />
So I squeeze, a little more.<br />
<br />
A little more -<br />
<br />
Oh God, a little more, eyes shut tight, and -<br />
<br />
<i>click</i><br />
<br />
Oh, it's not so bad! Cold, losing so much blood, but really... <span style="font-size: x-small;">Janey</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-91306753261528131532010-06-23T08:19:00.000-07:002010-06-23T08:19:14.044-07:00An argumentShe is shouting at him. He is shouting at her.<br />
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They halt on your arrival, and stare - they did not see you approach. It seems that it is true: you cannot observe the action without affecting it. I forget whether it is Heisenberg or Schrödinger I should thank for this trick.<br />
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Never mind; as the author, I can lead you behind a veil and allow the couple to continue. They will forget we were here.<br />
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"You always tell me what to do!" she says, irritation showing in her voice. Her shoulders tensed, face obscured by her hair, looking at the ground. "And whenever I do things my way, you act like I'm a huge disappointment! Why can't you just let me make my own decisions?"<br />
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He isn't looking at her either. "I don't know why you feel like that. Try to see things from my perspective: every time I get a little bit of hope, and stop pushing you, you give up again."<br />
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She reaches across the table and puts her hand on his. "But I <i>am</i> getting better. <i>Trust</i> me."<br />
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Why should you care about them, if you know nothing about them? Allow me. I am the woman - or, at least, she is me. Me as I see me. And how far that is from Anna the Writer, I am least qualified to say.<br />
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Here, a lot is unsaid. They know the history, and you don't. Allow me. The woman has struggled with depression. She is teaching herself how to be brave again. The night of this conversation, she bailed on a commitment - a failure that she saw as making a free choice, and he saw as a relapse. The cursor is blinking at me. I didn't plan beyond this part. So, because I can, I think I shall bring resolution.<br />
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“I’ll try to get better. I am trying. I love you.” This time he takes her hand. She looks up, and their eyes finally meet.<br />
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They drop the subject, shelve it for next time they need something to resent, and sleep. You can go now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229767818232423700.post-72889901743250518632010-06-23T08:13:00.001-07:002010-06-23T08:13:59.443-07:00On the tracksHe has his answer: it doesn’t stop.<br />
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“Does it ever stop hurting?” The question he doesn’t ask – his mother weeping openly – he feels the need to be strong, outwardly. Inwardly, he is already heading to the crossing.<br />
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The crossing. It’s dark; a mild, starless night. He tries not to think about the doctor.<br />
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The doctor, hiding behind her clipboard, muttering “I’m so sorry”s with a solemn, tearless face. He stares at his knuckles, white and pink from his fierce grip on absolutely nothing.<br />
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Nothing to stop him now. As he waits, his thoughts turn to heaven or oblivion. Which is worse? Best to say his goodbyes now, in any case. The note already does that, for the most part, but he wants to say something to his daughter.<br />
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His daughter, three years old, refuses to get into the pool. She doesn’t want to get her new swimming costume wet. It’s red, with a smiling yellow duck over the heart.<br />
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“Come on in, honey, Daddy’s gonna catch you!”<br />
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– on absolutely nothing –<br />
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He boards up the window she fell from, hammer and nails splitting the wood.<br />
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The wooden post piercing the earth; the last mark he’d make on this house; the last he’d allow it to make on him.<br />
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His eyes blur with choked apologies as the screaming demon train took him to whatever comes next.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0