You Are At The Archives for January 2012

Saturday, January 28, 2012



Trod the wallpaper with my fingertips
Ribcage open like the downside of birds’ wings
Homegrown guilt fucks up my insides,
Swollen wrists pressed ear to ear,
Right left south whispered words
In the growing gap
Of romanticized rape, psychological
Red and grounded eyes scan my pelvis
I waited I waited I waited
Followed the warm hand home
A child in a stranger’s bed I whimper
Too closed up to digest the words
I lived under the table
And discovered how much I hate vodka.

Friday, January 20, 2012



She hadn’t been there before. The bright hot wave of the infrared lights basked upon her skin for the absolute for time. Her toes were cold; her hair sticky from sweat mixed with hairspray and whatever else that had been floating in the air. She stood languidly against the slice of brick wall between two bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting for some kind of momentum to push behind her knees so she would walk. 

The glass door eased off its hinges as it sprung open, popping back to place like a lost vertebrate as an identical pair of young males dragged each other out, leggings and sneakers woven together as though they were biologically joined by the hips. Clea watched them in slight illusion as she drew her fingers to her lips, sucking in at the cigarette she imagined to be there. The gray puff of breath imploding into the cold air did the trick, spiraling up in distorted ringlets. The black-legging beauties from indoors were at the second slice of brick wall, but only halfway. The one with his back to her had his left leg out against the glass of the window, almost drawn over the skinny hip of the one topping him as his whimpers rose out into the air in thin, vibrating clouds. 

Clea breathed in and tilted her head, her eyes following a loose piece of thread as it dangled in the infrared spotlights, red and then white, red again as it rested down on his black legging. Roles had changed against the wall; their bodies more against glass than brick as she opened the door and walked inside.

She glanced at the man by the counter.

Then at the window.

A small, white hand was pressed to the glass, fingers curling slowly as though trying to grip the bulletproof surface.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara Roberts challenged me with "Somewhere over the rainbow" and I challenged SAMwith "Take the book nearest to you, flip to page 45 and use the first full sentence as your prompt/inspiration for your text". 

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


A short story I wrote while riding on the train on the 1st of January. Inspired by the train traveling across water in Spirited Away.


The night is cold, crisp with snow as the train races along the tracks, 200 or so kilometers per hour. From seat number five she sees the tables in front of her, with their half-black knobs that turn clockwise to let go, like miniature wipers sweeping across the windshield of a car that has been unfortunate enough to have its windows decorated with gray spray paint. In seat eleven a man’s coat is hanging from the hidden coat hanger, the buttons at the left side of the collar coming across as three eyes with big black pupils and irises of dirty steel. She flinches. It’s as though the three buttons are making note of everything happening on the train. They look like camera lenses.

The supposedly hygienic papers stuck over the cushions on the top of the empty seats sway from the multi-temperature air blowing across the inside of the train, cold at one time and hot at another.  She sometimes thinks of the train driving across the sea, its tracks made of something floatable as though it were an electromagnetic messiah walking on water with its metallic, toeless feet. She can almost imagine the water seeping through the cracks of the doors, sloshing across the floor in a relatively smooth rhythm, tiny waves each time the train reaches a station.

It makes her lips curl into a crooked smile as the train slows down now, stopping for maintenance. She lets her eyes close as she envisages the cold slur of water crowding the spaces between her toes, making her socks sticky clumps of fabric, her shoes soggy like wet paper towels. The makeshift feeling makes her serene, content.

She opens her eyes to find the three eyes turned away. The man in the seat has switched position and so has the coat, just a bunch of black cotton and polyester hanging blandly on the hook. The screens in the ceiling show the number 171 at the top right corner.

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