Showing posts with label shorts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shorts. Show all posts

545

We thought creativity was exclusive to humans, that machines could not create, that you needed a soul to produce art.

We were wrong.

Despite flesh and spirit, art is still a mechanical process. Neurons firing to create ideas, to command movements, to make something from nothing.

Electricity and wiring move a metal hand same as neurons and muscle move my hand.

A soul isn't required—only energy.

484

The car's roof had large, uneven spots--a paint job gone wrong. The windows were dingy and dusty and the brown paint was faded, speckled, even rusted in spots. A pair of black and white dice hung on the review mirror. Decals of playing cards, the Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Spades, were on the passenger-side door. She could see a black top hat on the back seat, along with a stuffed duffle bag.

She walked around the back of the car and smiled at the license plate: MGCMAN

This was the magician's car, and she was surprised he parked it this far away from the building, out in the open. She glanced around the parking lot, but he must have still been in the store.

So she leaned against the trunk and waited for him.

483

I see all the suffering
There's nothing I can do
No amount of willpower
will ever see this through

I look for superheroes
for any saving grace
But still this world's fallen
A broken human race

Our poets talk about this
beauty in the breakdown
as if we should admire pain
I'd rather cure the town

452

Sometimes she thinks she's sleeping.
Sometimes she isn't sure.
Sometimes it doesn't matter.

451

The Fates decided we'd be strangers
but I hear our echoes back and forth
your footprints are my footprints
even as we're walking separate paths

450

She's all straight lines and angles
He's spirals and backtracks
She's as the crow flies
and he's scenic Sunday drives

Seven Times I Wish I Would Have Said Something

1. We played soccer in the neighborhood park until the sun went down and the street lights came on. We still had to do the last bit of the party, the birthday cake, so the end of the game snapped into a race back to my friend’s house. He was wearing two shirts that night, and he had taken off the outer one during the game. At the thrill of the race, he forgot his t-shirt (running was his favorite thing), so I picked it up. It was damp, a mix of sweat and the night chill, and maybe gross. (Probably gross, actually, but that sort of thing didn’t bother me.) I sprinted after the group, found him outside the kitchen door, and handed him his shirt with a simple “You forgot this at the park.” He glanced at the shirt, as if for a moment he didn’t remember it was his, and then took it with a smile. “Thanks.” That turned to a frown. “Ah, it’s sweaty and that’s gross. I’m sorry. You didn’t have to–” I said, “No, it’s fine–” but he was already in the kitchen, maybe too embarrassed to stay?

2. When my grandfather passed away, everyone was at his house. His wife, all of his children, all of his grandchildren, and the priest. My grandfather was sick for a while, and we knew it was just a matter of time, and then it was that time. Almost everyone was crying, everyone was passing tissues, and from the other room, I watched the priest go over to my dad. There were whispers and quiet noises in the house, but I could hear the priest perfectly fine. “Why isn’t she crying? She knows it’s okay to be sad, right? That it’s normal to grieve and to show that with tears.” I was sad that night but I didn’t say anything because for me, tears are wired to anger, not grief.

3. In high school, my freshman English teacher was really good at playing to people’s learning styles and personalities. Sometimes, he’d ask us to have a classroom discussion and besides talking, we had to write down our responses. Then he collected our papers so he could see how we were thinking, even if we didn’t say anything in class. He wrote nice comments on mine and on the third one, he added a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.” I had excellent ideas to add to the discussion, but he couldn’t figure out why I didn’t raise my hand and share with the class. During my college freshman seminar, my professor wrote the same quote on one of my essays. By that time, I figured out what was happening: I couldn’t sync with the flow of the discussion. I thought of things too early or too late to make sense with what everyone else was saying, so I didn’t say anything at all.

4. “No, seriously, I want to marry a pastor some day.” I had known this girl for two days and she was telling me about her marriage plans. And expecting me to be excited for her. “Do you think there’s a club?”

“Sorry?” I said.

“A club for girls that want to be pastors’ wives. Maybe I’ll start a Facebook group!”

5. My friend Alicia graduated from high school a year early. On one of the last days of junior year, we were hanging out after school and she asked me to write in her yearbook. I’d see all of my friends again in the fall, but Alicia was going away to college, so for her, this was the last yearbook. I’m not a nosy person but I glanced over the other well wishes and goodbyes written by our classmates. I wrote my note, signed it, smiled, and handed the book back to her. It wasn’t goodbye for us yet—we would see each other over the summer—but the yearbook signing felt official, ceremonial.

“Did you see what Dave wrote?”

I shook my head.

She flipped a few pages into the yearbook, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me. Dave had written an entire page. I looked at Alicia for a moment. Was it okay to read the whole thing?

She nodded. “Yeah, read it.”

Dave was a mutual friend and I knew that he was a very private person. He and Alicia were close friends but I still didn’t expect him to write a letter like that. He thanked her for being such a great friend, for being there to talk, to listen, to help him when he needed advice or to vent. He said he would miss her and he hoped he could find a way to visit her at college. He wasn’t sure what senior year would be like without her, if he could find another friend to be what he needed. He had opened up to Alicia and he was afraid of shutting himself in again.

I handed the letter back to her and whispered, “Wow.”

“Yeah, I know.” She tucked the letter back into the yearbook. “Listen, will you look out for him next year? He’s going to need someone.”

And I only nodded because I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t know if I could help him. I didn’t know how I could be that friend for him.

6. I went to a liberal arts college that required every student to take classes in every discipline, regardless of your major. The one I didn’t want to take was history, but I got it over with during my sophomore year. Near the end of the semester, I passed my professor in the hallway and he asked if I had considered majoring in history. I shook my head and said something about already settling on my major because I couldn’t tell a history professor who’s standing in the history department that history is my least favorite subject.

7. “So which movie do you guys wanna watch?” It was movie night at my friend’s house, and the great thing was, she essentially had a library of DVDs in her house. For the most part, I’m not picky about movies so I let everyone else say if they felt like watching comedy or action, fantasy or drama. I commented on the movies I had already seen, but I didn’t say anything to steer the discussion. An hour later, we were still trying to pick one movie and I wished I had set up voting or some process of elimination from the beginning.

432

He makes me want to run through the streets, throw stones into the dark river, hold my breath and listen to the night hum, squint at the sky to see the stars beyond light pollution.

This, for a dead man from Illinois who wrote about spaceships on Mars and heartbroken dinosaurs on the beach, secret libraries of unread books and full-room glowing screens that mesmerize people. His characters always seem trapped but reading them, I felt free.

I wondered if I would build prisons for the people in my imagination, if I would dare, if they would lock themselves in, if they could set others free.

428

I'm learning how to drop off the grid like you do. I'm learning to let friendships go and ignore attempts at reconnection. I don't feel angry; I barely feel guilty. The part that scares me is, I like the separating. I like the freedom.

Is this what it's like for you?

Not in her world

It's a completely different world inside her head,
when she's tired in bed,
and what you don't understand is,
she will never let you in.

She won't tell you about
the stories she writes
or the characters she dreams,
of anything she creates in her headspace
Because it's all in the world she creates
and you do not belong there.

Do you know what you are to her?
You are anger, ignorence, defeat, disappointment,
illogic, arrogance, prejudice, immaturity, lies, malice.
Her world is not perfect but she does not welcome you there.

She leaves you here in this broken, screaming world
Not as punishment but because you belong here
And you have the nerve to persecute her?

Passing secret

"You'd tell me if you needed help, right?"

He looked at me, just looked, and then scratched his head, a few inches above his ear. "Yeah, why?"

I shrugged. "We haven't been talking for a while and it was just lucky..." I looked out at the street. "Just a coincidence that we walked by each other." I pushed away from the brick wall and turned my back to the dead end of the alley, so I was looking out at the passing cars. "I just want you to know that I'm around. I'm around if you need me."

The corner of his mouth lifted into an almost-smirk and then his expression went blank again. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"So what is it?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you about this one."

"And you're okay."

"I will be." He nodded and adjusted the strap of his small black duffel bag. "Everything is fine. Don't worry."

How could I? I didn't even know what kind of work he did those days.

Her hands

Her hands are a good place to start. The way she presses her fingers flat against a door to push it open. How easily her fingers bend into a salute, even though she had no military training.

I'm still puzzled by how she taps her fingers on a table without making a sound. And I remember seeing her hands clench into fists while the rest of her body remained passive and loose. At other times, she picked up objects as if they were weapons, testing their weight and balance. Ordinary items too, forks and pens, staplers and water bottles. Armed in any office environment.

It's unsettling to think about because in every other way, she's non-threatening. Few people have seen her rage and power. I am one of them, but you probably won't believe my story. I hardly believe it, seeing how docile she is on normal days. But I knew her in extraordinary times.

417

The forecaster told us
It was gonna rain
So we started up a fire
and spread out all our pain.

Less order

I'm the kind of person who puts everything back in its place.
My shoes go in front of my dresser.
My coat is always on the same hanger.
One pen on my desk and the rest go in the mug.

I'm not obsessive about these things
It's automatic behavior, habit, built up

I want to be the kind of person that can leave things so
Take off my shoes and leave them there
by the desk, under the coffee table

The kind of person who can break habit
Who doesn't carve out her own ruts.

Break the rhythm;
see what happens.

409

The smell of photo chemicals triggered her, and she was back in the darkroom. So dark that she couldn't see her hands as she worked the film onto the reel. Twist, twist and she heard plastic rubbing on plastic. She felt the gear turning and the film wrapped around the ridges. She pushed the reel into the developing canister and twisted the lid shut. "Done."

And she was standing back outside on the sidewalk, blinking at the setting sun.

408

I kind of feel I'm floating here
floating for the atmosphere
Won't you be my anchor, please?
Keep me here with your good deeds
I could really use a friend like you
I'd really like to have a friend like you...

I want to write you stories, histories, poetry

I want to write you stories, histories, poetry.

The moonlight slips through my bedroom curtains
alighting my thoughts, and in wisps
they escape my mind.

A glowing dust trail lingers in the air,
sets my fingers typing—
no, writing
the pen viced between my thumb and fingers,
a slave to my wrist, hand, brain

Electric shocks along my nerves,
and I'm holding the pen too tightly,
my fingers turning white

I cannot stop.

Everything in my mind floods down
and my breathing slows
Write, I must write and everything else falls back.

I hold my breath,
fight the sleep overcoming my eyelids
curl my toes, asking my body to stay with me
Let the writing happen.

I have so much to tell you
But I'm tired. I won't remember it.
How can I understand thoughts that haven't crossed my mind yet?

But the pen knows, so my fingers move
Writing, just writing, and I feel removed
I become an instrument, all my strings pulled taut
waiting to be plucked, drawn
the inspiration's vibration, springing through me
releasing, relaying, readjusting

My fingers know the rhythm
My mind captured the shapes
The writing becomes automatic,
perpetual, self-inflicted, involuntary

I let out my breath

The strings slack
My grip loosens
Losing focus, forgetting

What happened?

Alicia Quinn

I’m writing a novel-length story and it's sort of about superheroes. There aren’t capes and spandex. People with special abilities work with the local police force to keep the city safe. Or they don’t—it’s their choice. I finished a very rough draft a couple months ago and I’ve been working on expanding it.

Here’s a character, Alicia Quinn, that I wrote a short scene about earlier this week. I don’t know if I’ll add it into the larger story, so for now it's here.


One.

I closed my eyes and let my mind open, but it felt like I let down the flood gates and now a small village was drowning. Sounds circled around me, bombarded me. Conversations. Birds chirping. Cars honking, tires skidding. Sirens. Children laughing.

Two.

I took a deep breath and the spinning stopped. Each sound took on a form: a spotted sphere for the laughter; jagged lightning bolts flashing forest green—those were the police sirens; flat rectangles with irregular stripes for the conversations; popping bubbles, orange and pink, for the car horns. I could organize the sounds after I made them tangible this way. Better yet, I could focus on one specific sound, if I wanted to.

Three.

Another deep breath, and I felt my body floating. I glided between the sound-shapes. I touched the laughing sphere and giggled when it tingled-tickled against my hand. But that wasn’t what caught my interest.

I hovered over to the lightning and shielded my eyes as sparks splintered off the green bolts. The sirens. They were all I could hear now and if I focused, I could pinpoint where they were coming from. The way Derek had taught me. I closed my hands over my eyes, blocking out the light that still shined through my eyelids.

Where. Where?

I felt my mind drifting and I gasped, reaching to stay with the sound.

Main Street. Espresso machine buzzing—a cafĂ© nearby. The green bolts snapped into twin vertical lines. 11th Street.

Two.

I let the sound-shapes dissolve and return to their abstract, invisible forms.

One.

I opened my eyes and sat up. “Derek, I got it.” I sat on the edge of the couch. “Sirens down town.” I looked up and realized I was talking to an empty room.

My older brother Derek died a year ago, but I still talked to him sometimes. I sighed and stood up. I found the sound exactly like he taught me. The next step was always up to me.

388

In my head, I see colors swirling. Deep golds and vibrant blues, shimmering greens and robust reds. Mixing, separating, fanning out to sparks from trumpets and drums. Clipped violins and reverberating guitars. Smells of cotton candy and soft pretzels. Crackling crushed ice that just melts on my tongue and dark chocolate whose flavor bursts and then deflates. Spinning echoes and twisting light. I'm not always happy, but I'm always me: thinking, talking, feeling, tapping, twirling, grinning.

But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.

I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.

379

I've been dancing to traditional Greek folk music since I was eight years old. There's one dance we call the Bulgarian (probably because it's more Bulgarian than Greek in style). It's fast. It moves in a circle, not just to the right but to the left, too.

It's my favorite dance because there's more to it than speed and direction. When I do this dance with a small group, six or eight people, and we can keep a tight circle, I start to feel like I can float above the ground—not constantly, but in moments. Between tapping feet and switching directions, there's a moment when all of our feet are in the air, and the circle in spinning. I feel like I'm watching a carousel, except I'm moving and everything else is standing still.

Then something else happens. The longer we go, the higher we jump, the slower time passes. I hear the beats in the music, but I feel the gap. Somehow, the faster I move, the slower it feels and I can focus on everything I see. Nothing is a blur because I am the movement.

This lasts for three and a half minutes and then our feet stop, exactly on the last beat of the song. I should be catching my breath. (I'm not.) I should feel a bit dizzy from the spinning. (I don't.) The time inside my head and the time of the world sync up again. I leave the floating circle and walking off the stage feels too normal.