the candles of saint mary.

there we are, gathered before a corner of the college campus that is alight with rows and rows of candles on racks.

this is saint mary's place, the tour guide says. this is where students can say a prayer and just let go of all the worries in our lives.

or at least something along those lines. i'm barely listening.

she invites us to each light a candle, if we like. she assures us that even though the school is catholic, it's okay if we're jewish. it's okay if we don't even reflect about god if we don't want to.

i follow all the other girls to the crate of unlit candles,

watch each of the girls in front of me take one.

but when it is my turn to take a candle, i start to reach for one and pause.

i know the light is supposed to symbolize hope and spirituality and all, but all i can think about is the not the light, but the candles. there are hundreds of them burning in this place. hundreds of candles made of tons of wax. and as i stand there, i can't help but question. if there's a god, then why is he letting all of this candle wax be consumed by college kids and visitors for a symbolic manifestation of prayer when there are other places in this world where symbolism is useless because real warmth and comfort is so impossible to come by?

i can't keep standing here for much longer. there are people waiting behind me who want their candles too. a small part of me still wants to take that lump of wax, just to experience lighting its fresh, unburnt wick and seeing the little flame blossom from nothing. but it seems pointless now. i put my hand back into my coat pocket and step towards the racks of candles. i watch the other girls light theirs with wooden sticks provided for that purpose, placing them in empty places in the rows. each candle in this array of illumination is meant to embody a different person's hopes and prayers. can a candle really do that?

as the other girls kneel at the gate and pray, i stare for a while at the sight before me. it feels like so much human emotion is put into these dots of flickering light, but the candles themselves are solemn. they themselves don't feel a thing. for some reason it reminds me of the vietnam memorial, with all those names on a stone wall expressing loss. no matter what it's supposed to represent, the engravings in the stone are cold. silent. nothing more than a tool for man to help come to terms with himself. that's all it really is, in the end.

continuing to look at the candles seems useless now. standing apart from everyone else, i turn to face the night sky. it's silent, starless, indifferent, and the air is quivering with the chill. but i have more faith in this than i have in the countless candles flickering behind me.

it's time to go. the girls are wordless as they rise from their prayers. there's no sound as we gather around our chaperones. and as we slowly walk out of the place with saint mary's candles, we don't say a thing.

is this dream too stupid, she thinks

as she folds the paper

she bits the pencil held between her teeth

rolling it around as her nimble fingers expertly folded the paper

before dropping the finished project behind her

adding to the already large collection she had acquired

before picking up the next piece of paper

and she plucked the pencil from between her lips

the pencil already stained red from her lipstick

as she quickly scribbled down something on the paper

before she started to fold that piece as well

pencil back between her lips

rolling around slowly between red-stained lips

it wasn't until late that night

the early morning hours flashing at her from her cellphone

as she creeps out her front door, breath held in her throat

as the door clicks closed behind her, before she's quickly scuttling away

pencil held between ruby-covered lips

as she clutches 3 plastic bags delicately, each filled with folded pieces of paper.

10 minutes later she was in the forest

almost stumbling over roots that were hidden by the almost pitch darkness

if except for the light of the cheese moon, and the lone streetlight in the parking lot, over 250 metres away

as years of traversing these woods finally payed off, she reached the cement bridge

and slowly started to climb the steep steps

gray boots clicking slightly with each step vibrating against the silent forest

as she reaches the top of the bridge, she pauses

and glances upward, staring at the butter moon

surrounded by stars and planes, and Jupiter to the bottom right

occupying herself with glancing up,

she slowly walks to the middle of the bridge, but trips on the old, uneven flooring

one hand reaches out, and catches the railing

but the plastic bags are ripped open

and her projects are deposited to the ground

not stirred by the lack of wind.

she stares at their faint outline in the dark

before she feels tears stirring in her eyes

but she ignores it, squatting downward to pick up her projects

one by one, she picked them up, putting them back in the plastic bags

that have been tied together messily to prevent them from leaving

and the tears won't stop falling

finally she collects them all, and she rubs the base of her palm

against her left eye, feeling the mascara, eyeliner, eyepencil, primer, and eyeshadow

trail against her eye to her temple

she hisses lightly as she steps onto the first step of the railings

the sharp uneven wood and nails digging into her legs

but she ignores in, in favour of pulling out her first project

and bringing it to her lips, she kisses it

and pulls back, pleased with the red lip-stain she left on the top

before rearing her arm back, and pitching it forward

and in the dark highlighted by the night

she watches as the first airplane twinkles

negatively attracted from the stars as it sinks towards the river below

before it finally lands perfectly on top wavering as it is drawn out of sight

from the dark of the night, and the rushing of the river

and she's kissing another before letting it fly

and she's wondering to herself,

will anyone ever find these paper airplanes?

decorated with a kiss on top

and inscribed with a secret

written inside with a pencil that has scarlet lipstick marks on

that was written with an unknown amount of siblings

that are one by one

let out into the world

under the light of the twinkie moon

Wires

and there was his carcass.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.
hanging in the twisted barbed wires.

sangre de cristo,
sangre de cristo.
I know what it means father,
but i'm not him.

cuts across his wrist.
forearms.
chest.
thighs.
abdomen.
back.
quadriceps.
everywhere.

his once brown hair now a shock of red.
blood was still creeping down his body towards his face.
upside down.
his eyes were open.
his shoes were on.
his clothes were torn.
his book was on the floor.
his book was in the blood.

forgive me father for I have sinned.
I have sinned and sinned and sinned.
forgive me.
don't let the devil take me.

the small triangular bristles along the wire were scarlet.
the concrete bathed in a pool of crimson.
the walls splattered with cerise.
his head a shade of carmine.

bad blood.
bad bad sinful blood.
deserved to be spilled.
he was the sin.
he took the blame.
he was the blame.
the book was a prop.
the clothes material banter.

If I pray, nothing bad can happen.
I'll be preserved.
I'll be sustained.
oh fuck just help me.

God's soldiers sent for him.
pushed him into the dragon's den.
knowing he'd be devoured.
even with the protection of His book.

so there he hung.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.

stuck.
lost in translation.
stuck in purgatory.
or was it hell.
or was it heaven.
did it matter.
he was dead.
the blood of a christ was spilled.

I'm not ready yet.

--mark

chivalry.

is it still worth it?

it may not be dead

but it's ebbing.

chivalry is good because most of the time

it just means a level of respect that isn't seen that much anymore.

besides, it is absolutely adorable when a guy holds the door open for a girl

or when he offers to carry her books.

on the other hand

if it's my books that are offered to be relieved from me

i've found that i'll get offended

even though the boy probably means well.

but i happen to be both smallish and proud and pseudo-self-reliant

so my immediate thoughts will be "YOU THINK I'M HAVING TROUBLE CARRYING MY OWN DAMN BELONGINGS".

and that's the type of attitude that doesn't mesh too well with the concept of chivalry. :3

Modest vignettes that don't deal with anything

we're messing with the tabs of our coke cans as we watch as the curator of the party stumbles over to us, two beer cans held within his hands.

'you know what ladies? you two... you two are beautiful.' he gasp at us, and for once, he's serious looking.

we look from our drinks to his face as he continues to talk to us.

'don't don't tell yourself that you are not. don't be don't be one of those stupid girls who say, oh, he doesn't like me, i must not be pretty. you are pretty. you two are beautiful. and. and if he doesn't think you're pretty? well then. he must not be smart.'

we smile at him and nod our heads and we forget that he has beer swishing around in his stomach.

-------------------------------------------

we're giggling to each other, doodling with sharpie

on the walls of your basement

and your iPod is playing music in the corner

and you lean over to me and grin

breathing out smoke between teeth

as you whisper to me,

'you're my firework'

and you lift your fingers to your lips, taking a quick drag

before flicking the stub again, smoke again

whipping out of your mouth,

and i glance back at the wall

covered in pictures

slogans

swears

jokes

dreams

------------------------------

dear mister mystery;

do you know who you are?

you know who you are

but you don't know who you are to me.

i bet you don't know

that when i see you in the hallways, my heart goes just a tiny little smudge faster?

i have a feeling that maybe you did not.

will you ever? probably not.

[is this a public way of me saying that i perhaps like someone? possibly.]

i just know that it's 2:45 A.M. November 3rd

I've given up on NANOWRIMO

and am spending my time listening to Katy Perry.

andithinkilikeyou

-----lynn