Jeremiad

My thoughts these days are a jeremiad, a sadness, a wistful wishing. How was I so blind? What did I do wrong? I can't come up with satisfactory answers, and so I am left, still unsatisfied.

Her design encourages "mind & body." But what about the heart?

Orphic

These are the ties, the little twist-ties, that close me up and shut me in and keep me covered in thick black plastic. Swimming in the waste of the days and the nights, of the looks and the words, most of all my thoughts and irrationalities. Two doses of emotion and sensitivity. That's what I got, that was my lot. It's not poetry, what I feel, but I've always believed in this over rationality. That's what led to you. Three. Three times. Three people. And only one of me.

Accolade

Sometimes I feel like the whole world is only us two. Sometimes I wish it were so. Then I could grasp us in my hand and carry us to safety. It would be manageable, I would protect it. And all the world -- which would not exist, except for us -- would heap praise upon our souls. Isn't it a pretty bauble, this dream, this love? Luckily I can afford it. You are my gold.

Folderol

The house is full of useless trifles, but he seems to like it anyway. Her brain is full of inane stories, but he seems to like it anyway. He can see past the trivialities, to their essences. She doesn't know what magic lens he wears in his heart, but she thinks it the most precious gemstone in the entire universe. She would hold it in her hand to marvel at its beauty, but then he would not have it on. And then what would he see?

Caitiff

I feel like such a coward sometimes. When you look into my eyes, I find it hard to match your gaze. I'm not sure what it is I fear. Maybe I'm afraid that you'll look away first, or that you won't like what you see. It's stupid, I know, but the truth nonetheless. So thank you for wanting to look at me. Thank you for telling me I'm beautiful. Thank you for making me believe it.

Interpellate

"They're interrogating me," he sighed.

She shook her head. "No, no. Honey, they love you. They're just..." She tried to come up with a tactful way of saying it. "They have a rough sense of humor."

He raised a brow. "I've had IRS audits that were less painful than that dinner."

She let it go.

Later, when they were tucked under the sheets of the queen bed in her room, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered, "What if... what if he's right?" Could she really go against them? Did she trust her own heart more than their wise and knowing eyes?

She wasn't sure. And wasn't that the problem?

Refulgence

When she gazes out into the night, out over the sea, she sees nothing but the waves. There is the spray of foam, and the clouds obscuring the stars. There is the rush of the surf and the drifts of traffic from the street. There is the breeze on her arms, and the sand in her shoes. There is the weightlessness of her mind, and the hope and love in her heart.

And then there is his question in her ear: "In an ideal world, what would you want?"

Holy writ

These are not my dreams. These are the hopes, the imaginations, the spinnings of some other woman. Some girl, some jokester, some mean-spirited devil who plants her own seeds in other young minds, to germinate and grow, until the time to cut them, pluck them, seize them from the roots and pull. I do not desire this. I will not succumb, will not be a mere garden of other people's edens. I have my own hopes and needs and longings. They are plenty to fill my heart.

Bromide

I don't want to say something hackneyed or trite. I don't want to be just another face in the crowd, just another voice at the mic. There's nothing wrong with being average, but I'll be honest, I aspire to more.

(Maybe aspiration is reason in and of itself.)

Terpsichorean

She felt a sort of reverence whenever she walked into the room. With its top-to-bottom mirrors, the polished hardwood floor, the barre. Even without her pointe shoes on, she would have floated over the ground so as not to disturb a thing. She would have inhaled the air, as she did now, and closed her eyes to take in the scent. Sweat, dreams, and grace. Everything she'd ever wanted for as long as she could remember. Ballet. Life.

Catawumpus

The words, they don't come, even though I can feel exactly what I want to say. How to translate three little words into an entire composition, this is my conundrum. And isn't it funny that my heart still thump thump thumps catawumpus in my chest every time you come for me. And isn't it funny that I smile every time I hear your voice. You can't see what all's inside me, but I hope you know it anyway. I hope you can hold it with you until I figure out the right words to say.

Babel

She thought she could pick him out in any crowd. She was so certain she knew that smile, that mop of light brown hair, those ears that stuck out just a little bit farther than they should. He had such a distinctive walk, carried himself in that particular way. She never imagined it would be so hard.

But now, in the midst of this chaos, the shouts and cries and fires and smoke, she cannot find her little boy. She screams out, one more voice of panic and desperation. Mildly she feels the blood on her arms, the pain in her side. But it's nothing compared to how she might feel if she loses him.

And he's not lost, she tells herself. He's just hidden. Waiting for her to find him. Like when he used to disappear into the clothing racks of the department stores. This is just another game. Eventually, she will win.

Palinode

I almost wrote you a letter today. Almost wrote you a poem. I wanted to tell you how happy I was. How much I've grown. What part in that you had.

But then I heard your voice, and it wasn't what I thought it would be. There was something of superiority. So I hung my head and shrank away, and I thought, "Maybe some other day."

Twee

"It's a stupid day," she muttered.

The mirror didn't respond.

It did, however, reflect the flowers on the nightstand by her bed. And the chocolates sitting on her desk. And the myriad of valentines, big and small and red and pink and glittery and pop-up, strewn across her comforter.

And the purple ring around her eye, the raised ridge on her cheek.

"A stupid day," she said again. A tear rolled down her face.

Manifesto

Shout it from the rooftops that this is what I'm all about and I don't need you to define me and I don't need you to like me and I just want you to love me but maybe that's not what's best for me anyway so I'm going to find myself in between the pages and the sheets and all the places they tell you to look because I don't know where else to start but here in my heart and in your eyes and in his arms and that's so much more than enough for me. In fact sometimes it feels like everything. Aren't you scared of all that this world has to offer?

Comity

"The truth is," she said, waving her carefully but with force, like the flag of an enemy combatant, "I'm more than just a little tired of all her bullshit. If she could wrap her head around something -- anything -- other than herself for, like, five minutes, then maybe we could find something in common. But until then, I'm perfectly fine not being her friend. We can just do the civil thing. I'm good at that."

He shrugged. "Used to be close," was all he ventured.

She scoffed. "Yeah. That was before I got to know her for real."

Lotusland

Catching her friend's eye, she grinned and waved. "Just a minute!" she called out, but no sound traveled through the hotel window, and certainly not across the bustling busy street. She slipped her heel on, fussing one last time with the strap, and then grabbed her bags and headed out.

The city on a day like this was more of a madhouse. Everyone walked around as if chased by demons, and no one cared if you were in their way. She jumped back immediately upon exiting the grand revolving doors, almost knocked over by a man and his hissing metal hot dog cart. Frowning at him as he continued without so much as an apology, she gathered herself and stepped up to the curb.

Cars flew by, honking, braking, jerking, buzzing. She felt like each time she blinked a whole new set was on the block. They were traveling in such a crunched hurry.

Across the street, her friend motioned insistently, impatiently. "I'm coming!" she reponded. She was taking too long.

She rushed forward, determined to cross. She thought she heard the ripping of her heel, and for a split second, she thought she felt her ankle turn. Then maybe a rush of air as she fell forward, and a great shock. The sound of a horn. The taste of blood in her mouth. The sizzling smell of those hot dogs.

Then nothing at all.

When she woke, everything was soft and light, the way skin care commercials looked on television. Her body seemed to float, though her feet were firmly on the ground. Her heel wasn't broken, but her bags were gone. There was no sound here, no sound at all. Just the air, quietly shimmering in her ear as she walked around.

"Hello?" she asked timidly. "Is anyone there?"

A low female voice, like a mother cat, replied, "Hello."

She stopped walking. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You are in-between," the voice said. "Have a seat and wait. We are still making our decision."

She looked confused. "Who?" There was no answer. "Well, where, then? Where should I sit?"

"By the pond," the voice said.

And suddenly there was a pond. Small and green, freckled with lotus plants. So she sat. And she waited. And she felt calm.

Grudging

The grudging couple finally allow the sunlight to rouse them from their sleep. She holds his hand; he holds her close. They hold on to these last few moments together.

Skin scent, clean touch, down down down until oh. Tick tock silently, almost doesn't exist, except for the persistence of the outside world. Voices and laughter, doors closing heavily; but inside here, there is only rustling of sheets, arching of spines, quivering.

It never really ends, when you think about it. Because you think about it. That's the beauty, and the danger, of a mind.

Disingenuous

He had worked the fields all day long, and long lines of sweat dripped down his back, tracing over his muscles, staining pathways across his thin cotton shirt. He was given no water to drink, no food to eat, no rest for his weary soul. Nothing until the sunset over the endless rows of cotton and the stars shone overhead.

Then sometimes he could rest. Unless his mind kept him up. Occasionally he was plagued with thoughts, sleepless hopes and fears entertwined to make one big ugly beast he couldn't slay and couldn't tame. Once he'd cried because he was so tired but the beast had come to visit him. One of the women had seen him, though, so from then on he always made sure to hold back his tears.

He doesn't tell his children about those days. He doesn't want them to know the way he suffered, the way they'd all suffered in the past. He loves their pure clean smiles and the brightness of their eyes. When they ask him, "Daddy, have you ever hurt inside?" he shakes his head and says, "No." When he's with them, holding them, smelling them, sometimes he thinks it might be true.

Gambit

He had a charming Southern accent and wildly red hair. She was doomed from the start. The minute he walked into the bar, into her life, she knew. She fell, even. Off the stool. But she caught herself on the counter, and no one really noticed.

They slow-danced that night. He had a flair for romance. It was something in the eyes, which smirked as they traced the curves of her face. It was something in the lips, which cast a spell on her with the words they whispered in her ear, the impressions they left in her hair. She almost forgot that they were whirling around to a country song playing on an old jukebox in a dingy tavern. For a moment, she forgot they were anywhere at all.

She took a chance on him, because that's what he was: her chance. Her one chance, perhaps, at believing again. He said, "Trust me." She asked, "How?" He chuckled, and kissed the back of her hand, and he promised, "I will show you all of me."

Somehow, she was sure that he would.



(This is fiction.

I'm a writer. I know the difference between fiction and real life. Or at least, I thought I did.)

Rarefied

He belonged to the rarified elite of men who not only said things, but did them too.

Wherewithal

The young blonde sat on a bench, contemplating. Passersby stared; isn't she cold? But she seemed not to notice them, nor the snow, nor the chilling winds. Occupied by her own limited world, she wore nothing more than dress slacks, a tasteful blouse, Mary Janes, and a dark grey peacoat. She looked like the picture of success, frozen for all time.

And that's what she was, she realized. This was her moment, her chance to shoot up like a star in the great expanse of night. But at what cost?

Go to Europe, they'd said. You'll be in charge.

Her own office, her own modern money machine in the midst of all that ancient historical beauty. Italian fashion, French cuisine, Spanish architecture, Belgian chocolate. She could have it all. They wanted her to.

And the compensation... Oh, the compensation! She would be set for life. She would never have to cook, do laundry, do anything ever again. Except her job.

But could she do anything else?

She frowned, trying to envision her life an ocean away. The exciting opportunities, the new responsibilities, the clean subways, the glittering Mediterranean. And the lonely apartment, the chatter of the television instead of his voice, the empty half of the bed.

Could she leave him behind?

She remembered what her mother had said. "You can live to work, or you can work to live. You've seen your father and I, you know which one we had to do. So make your choice wisely. And consider whether or not the money's really worth it."

So this blonde, this pretty, successful young woman, sat on the bench in the park in the freezing cold, and she thought.

All these beautiful grown-up faces, with their soft cheeks, strong brows, strong jaws. I look into their lovely lashes and wonder when I'll look lovely like them. There's a lot of maturing left to do before I think of myself as truly being who I'm supposed to be. What I sometimes ponder is, who will make that journey with me?

Verjuice

She set the final dish on the table, stepped back to take a look. Perfect! She smiled, pleased and proud. She tried to relax. He was going to like it. She was sure he was going to like it.

An hour later, porkchops stripped to the bone, wine glass empty, toes bare and touching and tickling -- she can barely breathe for her excitement, and yet she feels utterly calm. Like everything is just right. Perfect.

Then he asks for dessert.

She hides her panic well, keeping her eyes normal, her grin secure. In the refrigerator, she finds only strawberries, and the sour smell of their juice lets her know they aren't an option. Her spirit sinks. How could she have forgotten?

Resigned to her failure, she returns to the table, apologizes for not having thought it out.

He laughs. He leans over, kisses her on the cheek.

He had something else in mind.

Scintillate

He wears a dark suit and a tophat, and he scintillates in the moonlight. She isn't sure this isn't a dream, but she definitely doesn't care. He carries a single rose between his fingertips. His eyes are strictly on her; the world around them doesn't exist.

She can barely breathe, but she smiles and the action sustains her. It reassures her that she is alive, and she can -- and will -- enjoy this.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere."

He chuckles. "I can do that."

He leans in, kisses her. And she melts. She could be anywhere. Right there in his arms, she could be anywhere, and it wouldn't matter.

Pestilence

The pestilence spread rapidly into their hearts, traveling from mouth to eating, kissing, gossiping, shouting mouth. This was no accident; this was a message from the heavens. Thou art not what I'd intended, He says. Thou art wasting my gift to you: life. Until they learn to be pure and stable of spirit, they will suffer from this illness. No one can save them but themselves. They can help one another, but ultimately, each must make his own decision, to choose light over dark, love over hate. This is the only way.

Eddy

The slip of paper swirls round in a small eddy, and he is helpless but to watch it go. Down into the drain, her number, his hope. "Goddammit," he mutters, shaking his head. But maybe it wasn't meant to be. After all, she was just a pretty girl in a coffeeshop. Not the first, not the last. That was the beauty of being young. Someday in the future, though, he'd learn to be more careful.

Apologia

He read her words like an apology, but she's never been ashamed of the things she's done. Least of all to him. To him, with whom she tried so hard. To him, to whom she gave everything she could. To him, for whom she suffered in silence. He squeezed every last drop out of her heart like it was a dirty rag, and maybe it was, soiled by his filth, his vile and selfish lies.

She reads these words like a vindication, but they're not hers to appropriate. My sympathy is not benediction. If she wants to regain a place in this heart, she has to earn it. Earn it by merely being, instead of trying so goddamn hard.