I Can Still Taste ItHer hair hung helpless like the willow it engulfed the perimeter of my face blocking out the outside world it poured down and its sharp and gentle tips froze to the sides of my faceIt was not her hair that covered my earsthat made our divine personal secrete space silent, it was the abyss of concentration we were suction to
skin shade of pale blue lit from tv rays (other wise a stormy room) tv rays had a single reason–to give light to my love brilliant maskless florescentChiseled Cheekbones were carved out of granite, resting on top of her Lady’s chinA mouth that fell from god’s snow frosted apple tree, making me yearn for a taste making me cry ice Love curls off her i lashes shattering into a thousand white sparks; Slowly Timeless Fluttering,down our air-tight chamber.my eyes refleted their gnuine shine, burning my appreciation for them in the essence of her swollenheartstill lips. SHIVERED and BROKE out with dew
This quaked my sense of reality. Walls of hair started to fall down. I knew thenshe harpooned my dry anxious mouth and she was going to reel her self in!Her once heroic hair tips that ferociously dug into the sides of my face, was now brittleand conditioned, and started to s p l i t and p e e l, down past my ears ontomassaging my neckshoulders soon the base of her hair became longitudinal waves. My eyelids dryed guileding to the top and bottom of their sockets.During the infeed, silohuettes of her face tauntingly canted side to side, she was a Jaguar mealess for her prey DARKNESS SLOWLY SLOWLY SHAWDOWED the PALE-BLUE SHADE~With every millimeter she inched forward her rigid outlines got softer and more angelic
My love wanted Me, My sole, My breath, the life that oozed from my poresShe was willing to do anything for it–desperateher lips planted firmly on my fertile groundthe Kiss was indescribablei can still taste itDylan O’Neil is a sophomore majoring in English, with an option in writing. He would like towrite a good book that people will buy and spend a lot of money for.
My laundry spins around behind a small glass window. The floor smells vaguely of soap and feces. I wish for the fourth time since sitting down that I had remembered to bring a book to read. Scanning the cork-board above my double load Clean Queen, I read about a dairy farm looking for tour guides and a 1993 Dodge Shadow ES for sale. Occasionally others walk into the small yellow room to pick up or drop off a load. I, however, am the only one of any permanence. Some come twice or three times before finishing and departing altogether. One boy pulls up and steps into the rain, leaving his car on. The bass in his music rattles the window and permeates the room. Small, probably a freshman, he looks around for something after setting down his dark blue mesh bag. His eyes scan by me, a part of the scenery, and his face lightens. He bee lines to the opposite wall and changes a five-dollar bill. His bass doesn’t falter. He measures Bounce powder into an attending measuring cup, with the calculated precision of an alchemist. Taking time to read instructions under the lid before inserting his quarters, he turns on his heels after selecting a cycle and sits behind the wheel of his grey sport utility vehicle. A brown Volkswagen pulls up and three students exit, all carrying laundry bags. The driver and passenger, both girls, talk between themselves while preparing the laundry as if the boy wasn’t with them. He offers to fold their laundry after the deed but they don’t hear him, or ignore him. He’s fat, with red hair but no glasses. He asks again, somewhat more diminutively. The passenger turns, almost startled to see him and politely declines before continuing conversation with the driver, who catches me staring at her poorly clad chest during the interruption. Unshaven, un-showered and donning pajama pants and a bulky sweater, I must be quite the sight to a young co-ed. She turns her back to me after we lock eyes for a second and doesn’t glance in my direction before leaving five or so minutes later. Boy comments on the smell, eliciting a small reaction of general unpleasantness in the girls before fading once again. They leave after a minute or so, and drive off. The first boy, still in the parking lot drives off at this point too. A timer on my unit tells me I have fourteen minutes before the combination washer dryer is done. It’s getting dark outside. The rain slackens and as I fold my whites, the first boy comes back in to discover that he overused the flakes, and that they didn’t break down properly. He holds up a pair of dripping jeans with white streaks radiating down the legs. He takes it surprisingly well, and simply runs them another cycle. All of my clothes are accounted for. I have three dollars in my pocket that could buy me a drink. My throat is painfully dry and I can’t go much longer without cold libation. Orange soda from a rickety vending machine tears down the back of my esophagus, refreshing and painful. I swing the trash bag containing my laundry over shoulder and walk out as the three students return. The well endowed driver smiles at me but it isn’t nice. I don’t want her to know me. The rain is cold on my neck as I walk uphill to the house I share with Leroy. I think how lucky I am to have brought a trash bag. I step around and over slushy puddles on my way up Kaplan Street. A few cars drive by but none fast enough to splash me. I step over a decomposing McDonald’s french-fry sleeve- still bright red with yellow stripes inside, despite days on the wet street.
David Michael We Rule These SkiesRobert Reay
We’d over-filled the bags and banked the burners for smokeless flying. The only sound was the wind whispering through the rigging. It had taken us hours but finally we were sunward of the admiralty ship. It was almost time to send them plunging to their doom.
We rule these skies.* * *SurvivalRobert Reay
I never would’a thought it’d be me surviving the end of the world. I’m certainly making a mess of it. For two years now I haven’t been able to grow enough food and the cans I found won’t last a third try. I was so desperate to leave that farm…* * *The Disappointing Adventures of Mundane SusanJackson Ferrell
On Sunday afternoon, Susan found a robot in the dumpster. If Susan were a more interesting person, she would have taken it into her apartment and called up her mechanic friend Wes to try to repair it. But instead she called the police, and on Monday the robot was gone.* * *Easier Said Than DoneJackson Ferrell
Why was this so hard?My breathing was all off. My knees felt like they could buckle at any time; I’d even stopped walking forward, and wasn’t sure I could keep standing. Everything felt shaky. She’d been in my class for years. We’d talked before.It shouldn’t be this hard.* * *Alec Kast
I told myself quietly, “This is the last time.” Hearing the footsteps around the corner, I peeked carefully around to make sure I’d heard correctly.
Sure enough, it was her, and him too; as I followed at an indiscreet distance, I wasted a lot of time thinking they didn’t notice.* * *Alec Kast
“I challenge you,” I said. “Prove to me any way you can that there is some cosmic justice, some equilibrial aegis, in this world.”
Jacob shot me. As my eyes clouded, he put the gun to his own head. “Justice exists everywhere its believers reside,” he said, pulling the trigger.* * *
NoElizabeth J. Croteau
“No.”
She wept at the firmness of his voice. “Please…”
His look said it all. You’re pathetic. Stop grovelling. He turned away, hand on the doorknob. Tears blinded her eyes, but she heard the click of the knob, the creak of the hinges, and the guillotine slam of the door.* * *Think Before You LeapElizabeth J. Croteau
“If you don’t like it, you can walk!” She turned her attention back to the wheel, annoyed.
Walter huffed. “Maybe I will!”
Andrea glanced over at him, eyes rolling. “Sure you will.”
He fumed. In the heat of his fury, he lept over the rail, splashing into the ocean below.* * *Melissa Colbeth
I know he will survive the fall. Nothing – except death – is fatal. The scars formed will make him strong, tough; the next time won’t hurt as much.
To catch him would be to do us both disservice. Still, as he tumbles, I bite my lip, and struggle to do nothing.* * *LostMelissa Colbeth
Once, I could feel every heartbeat, every desire. I’d just reach, and the strings were in my hands.I reached today, and felt nothing: no strings, no want. “I still love you,” you said, but I knew it was a lie. With that patronizing lie, you severed our last heartstring.