One

The music flows through his every nerve

The loud. repetitive. thump

Of brain numbing bass

Is thrashing down his spinal cord

It's the only thing alive in him

In this state of awkward pseudo reality

He thinks he can see the notes in his head

But there's no cleff for this emotion

He knows he wants to dance

But his body is in such a state of shock

That he can't. even. move. a. finger.

Magician's Circle.

'Good evening Darren. How are you feeling tonight'

he spoke assertively. he never asked questions, he simply demanded responses. one always knew the best way to respond was sharp, witty, and without clout, for if unguided, one's response would draw that irksome glare out of the corner of his eye, the glare that would say 'I don't have all the fucking time in the world, move the fuck on.' so to postpone my own dismal feelings I responded with as much assertion as I could muster.

'Fine.'

how pathetic.
I received an unsympathetic grunt in response.
he pulled the glasses from his face and wiped them on his woolen cardigan.

'Shall we begin then?'

I paused. which in itself was a mistake, as I inevitably drew that irksome glare, dragged it across the room and vacuumed it into my own retina. I panicked.

'Y-yes, I mean, I suppose'

another grunt.
and then came the social rains.

'If you had one word to describe your situation what would it be?'
'Ensnared.'
'And why is that?'

I took a long breath, gulping down the air fathoming the thought of choking myself.

'Primarily because of you.'

I rather expected a ballistic expression. with a face of fire and a rain of insults to pour upon my frail body. instead I received only a pair of placid, vacant and untroubled eyes.

'Quite. What have I done that has so ensnared you?'

again, I paused. there was no answer to his query. I had no legitimate reason, no actual evidence, no fixture on which to lay my jumbled foundation. my thoughts were his eyes, vacant and placid, there was no corruption. nothing could awaken the dormant volcano of my emotions. I could not pour my soul onto this man, this humble man who has done nothing.
this man who has done nothing. done nothing to warp his soul to fit our needs. done nothing to right his wrongs. done nothing to prevent the future from spiraling from my control. done nothing to bring back the past.

'You have done nothing.'

he seemed puzzled.

'You claim to be trapped by me yet I have done nothing to offend you?'

I smiled.

'We are part of a sick cult. You suck us in and do not let us go. You simply observe, whilst we bang our soles and palms against an invisible wall. The cruel skilled magician. Why, once fair mage, is freedom now inconceivable?'

he was obviously bewildered, my smile faded.

'What on earth are you talking about boy?'

five-finger discount.

during break, maggie stands before the vending machine with her purse in her arm and a mild tug of hunger in her gut. wheat thins sound good today, she thinks as her fingers absently reach for her wallet. how much is it, ninety cents?

a handful of seniors materialize in front of the adjacent machine. "i think i'll have doritos," the one named max remarks as he pulls out a dollar bill. a girl in the group, sara, smirks at him. "are you really gonna buy that? well, i'm getting bugles. that machine doesn't work"--she nods at the one in front of maggie--"but this one does." the machine in front of herself, that is.

with a sly smile, she kneels, places a wiry arm into the machine where the purchased food drops, reaches up, and grabs a bag of bugles from the bottom row. "who else wants something?"

the rest of the kids call out the names of their desired snacks as she plucks the packages from behind the rings at the front of each shelf. they're snickering, a little. they're snickering because they beat the system. they're snickering because the money the school loses in stolen vending machine merchandise means nothing to them. they're snickering because they can. "how often do you do this, sara?" one of the guys quips.

she just smiles, shrugs noncommittally, and reaches for the skittles.

a minute later, she rises; all of them have their chips and candy now. "anything more?" she checks. "okay, good."

the group is grateful for the saved dollars. "thanks, sara."

"no problem."

as they mosey away from the vending machines, chatting and laughing, maggie remains frozen where she stood before they arrived, eyes vacantly fixed seemingly at the twix bars. she'd feel like a goody-two-shoes if she bought those wheat thins after watching them steal so casually, as if there was no moral dilemma. but there was a moral dilemma. it was still wrong, she thinks as she shifts uncomfortably. how could she possibly follow suit?

sighing to herself, maggie steps away from the vending machine and heads back to class. she has lost her appetite.

Concussed

"Don't laugh, that hurt"
And yet, I couldn't control my girlish giggle from flooding the room.

"Christ, you sure aren't caring...as far as gay boys go, anyways"

I rolled my eyes and continued tapping on her keyboard, swaying my hips slightly, making the spinny chair  move in a smooth half circle.
She pressed her pianist fingers against the back of her head, where she had seconds before hit clamorously into her headboard.

"I'm dying," She concluded, "I'm dying, or I'm going blind, either one. But everything's getting dark. Any confessions, Tom? This could be your last chance."

"You're fine, Lara."

"But seriously, how do you know if you have a concussion?" All the familiar drama left her voice and she directed her quizzical honey eyes at the computer screen.

"I'm pretty sure you'd throw up," I suggested, simultaneously typing "signs of concussions" into the Google search bar.

"Here, let me see," I said after scanning the first webpage. I got up and sat next to where she was sprawled on her bed.

I positioned myself with one leg bent towards her, the small space she had left requiring my left knee to scrape lightly against her. I moved her musician's fingers away from her summery hair and breathed, "Tell me where it hurts".

I slid my hand between her head and the pillow and gently lifted her towards me in order to softly prod the back of her head, searching for the tender spot so I could kiss it and make it better.

"Do you feel anything? Are you ok?" I spoke like a mother to her child.

"I- it doesn't hurt anymore," Lara answered innocently.

And then I looked at her face. At her big, shimmering honey eyes and her lightly freckled nose and her coral lips slightly opened and I just leaned in and kissed her, letting the weight of her head fall lightly back on the pillow.
And I just kissed her and she kissed me back. And I hovered my hand above the sensitive skin above her knee and she took my hand and pinned it against her flesh and I swore at that moment that I was sure she loved me and so I just said it, murmured right into her coral lips, "Lara, I love you."

She furrowed her eyebrows and pushed me away from her lightly freckled face and honey eyes.
This time it was her coral lips that giggled girlishly as she shook her head, "But I'm not gay."

Thank you.

To everyone who's ever written a book,

Thank you.

To every author who's ever fancied her pen a wand
and picked it up and cast a spell on the back of a napkin
and captivated the world,

Thank you.

To every librarian
and every teacher
and every friend
who's ever handed on a book and said
"Read this. I promise, you'll love it,"

Thank you.

To every director who's ever picked up that book
and called up a producer
and said "Let's do it!"

Thank you.

To every costumer who's sewn a robe
and every make-up artist who's painted a scar
and every set designer who's built a castle
or a forest
or a yellow brick road
and every actor who's given up themselves to make a character live instead
even just for an hour or two,

Thank you.

And to every other fan
everyone else who's laughed with me
cried with me
screamed at a character in a book with me
waited in lines at 11:59 with striped scarves and lightning-bolt scars with me
and spent their 11th birthday watching the sky for an owl with a letter,

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

For letting us all believe in magic, just this once. 

When Markus finally finds Kasia, she's locked herself up onto the roof of the appartment building, watching over the hum of New York City buzz beneath her feet 21 stories below. She's sitting on the ledge of the building, a wide, 2 foot long platform that drops off for a foot for another small ledge before it catapults into the smooth brick layout that makes the front of the building.

As he he softly closes the metal door behind him, he's wise to remember to take the keys out from the other end, and he stuffs them into his jean pocket. He hears the faint clicking of metal and scuffling noises, and he can just imagine Kasia hunched over, futily trying to lite an old cigarette that was hidden in the back of her dresser.

Tucking his hands into the pocket in the front of his sweater, he takes a few steps forwards, before he calls out.

"Kasia."

If she heard him, she gave no noticible cue. As the cold summer wind picked up, her hair spun around her head like a distored halo, and her sweater flapped around her small body like a cape. Walking forward, Markus eased himself up onto the ledge, and he sat with his legs dangling over. Minutes passed as the pair sat silently, surrounded by the smell of nicotine and smoke as the honks and screams and bright lights of New York glittered.

Kasia sits silently, knees bent towards her chest with her ankles crossed. Her arms are crossed around her knees, left wrist being held in her right hand. In between two fingers is a long cigarette, one tip gently burning, barely visible smoke lifting from it.

"I'm sorry," Markus tries again, and he twists himself so his right leg is curled underneath his left and he's actually facing Kasia. He tries to seem sympathetic, but it's all futile in the end because Kasia never looks away from the city exploding beneath the soles of their shoes. "I... I didn't know that he would react like that, okay? I've been with him before -- he's a really good kid, honest. He's my -- he's my bro, a'right? I gotta look out for him, but sometimes I just, I just don't know what goes on in his head."

Markus runs a hand over his head, and his fingers intwine with the strip of hair that's only in the middle of his head. He glances away from Kasia, and leans over the edge slowly, staring down at the traffic below them, and the few stragglers still out this late.

"I, I didn't think this would happen tonight." Kasia starts, and her voice is drifted into the night sky on wisps of smoke that curl out from her mouth with every exhale. Markus is silent next to her, eyes drifting from the city below to the smoker next to him, mouth twisted into a thin line.

"It happened really suddenly. I don't even know what I think of it, to be honest," Kasia lets out a smooth chuckle, as she fumbles with the cigarette she has balanced inbetween her teeth. Her hands are busy in her pockets, pulling out another lighter and another cigarette.

"Hey now, it's no big deal. He was drunk and high. No one knew what he was gonna do. I'll talk to him and make sure he knows to stay away next time he's like that, mmm'kay?" Markus cocks a smile and he rests a hand on Kasia's shoulder, on the inside curve so his thumb is just barely touching the inside of her neck and he can feel the radiant warmth coming from her. Kasia doesn't move except to flick the cigarette in her mouth over the edge where the wind picks it up and blows it away to be lost forever in the city of urban sin.

As she brings another cigarette to her lips, she flips open the lighter and clicks away at it, Markus carefully watching, though for what he doesn't know. After a dozen or so agrivating clicks of the lighter, Kasia gives out a wail of anger and she slams the lighter into the ground next to her, and her fingers are suddenly tangled in her hair that's whipping around her again as the wind picks up. Her ankles unhook then rehook themselves as she struggles to compose herself again, gnawing on the unlit cigarette that's rolled between her teeth.

"It's, it's not that, Markus. It's just that, I, er, I, I've never, I mean, that was my first --," Her voice catches and she glances at Markus from the corner of her eyes, pleading for him to understand and at the same time to suddenly forget she ever spoke.

"What do you mean that was your first -- oh. oh."

"Yeah,"

"Well. Oh. Oh god. Shit. Fuck, uh. I don't, oh shit, I am so sorry," Markus laments awkwardly, the hand that was originally on her shoulder now trailing awkwardly down to her spine where he rubbed circles.

"Yeah," Kasia croaks out as her jacket is whipped out behind her again like a cape and Markus is taking his hand back and lifting away from her to look down onto the city below them, where the lights that are pointed down are shining up on them.

rosemary tears.

as she combed through the rosemary patch in her garden under the crisp midmorning sun, marianne took special care to select the freshest, most shapely leaves. richard used to help her harvest the herbs when he was little, she thought as she hummed "scarborough fair" to herself. while her wrinkled fingers mingled with the woodsy scent of her favorite herb, she recalled how his eyes would light up every time she called to him, "richard? could you get some rosemary from the garden?" because he knew that whenever his mama made that request, there would be rosemary chicken for supper that evening.

she dabbed away a tear that had formed unbeknownst to her until now. her richard was a man now--had a pretty thing of a wife, two charming kids in grade school, and a perfect little house in the suburbs where they let her stay now. mostly kentucky bluegrass on the lawn, but of course they let her make a garden out back. he had a nine-to-five job in the city, so he mostly helped her on weekends when the kids didn't have to be driven to parties or soccer tournaments, but even those occasional hours with him seemed to be less and less frequent lately.

now, marianne, don't get so sentimental, she chided herself, sighing. working through the rheumatism in her knee, she slowly stood up and resolutely walked into the house with a smile in her eyes, if not on her lips. she was making the family rosemary chicken tonight.

Finding the freedom to be loved

Baby

I know that if I touched you right now I would break

Or I would melt like snowflake

Or I would float away like a balloon

And then pop

Out there

In the atmosphere

Before I ever made it to the moon

Baby

You are the pebble I carry in my shoe

Each time I take a step towards him I think of you

Because you're the first one 

The only one

And I only walked away from you because I was so ashamed

That I couldn't love you the way you loved me

Baby

With you there are no equals signs

There's no math at all

You plus me or me plus you doesn't equal anything

It equals everything and nothing and something

Because all I know is how much you love me

And usually that equals me owing you something

But I don't 

I don't

Because there are no equal signs in those beautiful blue eyes

There's only understanding

And it makes me cry

Because usually it's so easy

To give back equal to what I'm given 

But there are no equations with you

And all I know is that I am left with a debt I can't pay

And all I want to do is say that I'm sorry

I am sorry

I am sorry

That can't give you everything you try to give me

That I can't take what you try to give me because 

You give me your everything

And if I tried to give you my everything that equation would be so unbalanced that every mathematician would stare in disgust

Because it's like trying to make infinity equal one

Darling, you are infinite, your love is abundant

And I am only one

I am only a whole

only 100%

And that's not enough

So baby, 

I'm on my knees

begging and pleading for you to take my apology

but you won't

you won't

because you tell me you don't need an apology

And that I've already been forgiven.

Kincardine Bridge.

if home is where the heart is,
then I'm never home.

my home is an
eating
breathing
shitting
animal.
and nothing more.

so I suppose this is second best.
this rusty dishevelled broken piece of steel suspended over an anorexic river.
and tonight it is where I stand.

I wish it were more romantic.
that perhaps the aged brown metal structure was instead an aged megalith, vines sprouting from cracks in the rock.
or maybe a thin newly finished stretch of cherry planks stringing from one shore to the other.
something worth a reporter's interest.
but no.
I have my rust bucket.

the river below me stinks of oil.
the rust from the bridge falls into the slick like snowflakes.
I watch every occasional car that passes. wondering what could possibly compell them to cross this death trap at night.
and consequently,
I think of what drove me here.

about what makes this my home.
or my heart.
or my brain.
or my pancreas.
or my stomach.
why does it hold memories that I can't live without.

or,
perhaps,
why did it hold memories that I can't live without.

and why is it making me feel like this.
and what are my choices now.
and which choice is the right one.
and why are there so many fucking questions in the first place.

how stereotypical.
me, the angst-ridden, stubborn, depressed teenager on a bridge in the middle of the night.
contemplating the future and whether or not it deserves to exist.
or whether my memories deserve a place in my real world.
making a choice.

and I choose Kincardine Bridge.

they say love is like a brick.
that you can build a house or sink a dead body.
tonight that body belongs to me.

short circuit.

the physics is in the distance

point A to point B

there you are, away from me

looking for means to close the short circuit

to set the current flowing once again

and fill this system with light.

i need a safe way to convey my affections without blowing out the connections

to assure that even when i'm not there, i stil am.

until then, i won't pretend to miss you more than you can imagine

for i'm not a romantic.

but i'll always miss you more than you'll ever know

more than you'll ever be able to say to yourself for certain.

the song is wrapped around you, it's surrounding all sides

but i can't tell if you hear a single sound

so let's close this short circuit

and fill the system with light.

Espresso Stories, 6/20/11--7/10/11

How to make perfect rice...how to change a diaper...how to make love to a woman...how to propose...how to live. Who needs parents to guide you when you have the google search engine?


"I'm sorry, but your music sounds like gibberish to me..."
"It's alright, it's suppose to sound that way to anyone over seven.""Oh...I'm not sure if that make me the genius or you..."


These summer days may be the hottest time of year, but I've never felt so cold.


 She wondered if he would care if he knew how much she always objectified him.


"What would you do if all the people in the world disappeared?"
"I don't know. Probably play my clarinet."


Just so you know, I always care about you more than I let on.


 Perhaps it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but the same didn't apply for hope.


"Does salad count as a midnight snack?"
"Does pluto count as a planet?"
"..."
"...go get the ice cream, I'll run and get the chocolate."


I love you because if I told you I was leaving you for your own good you would call me out on my bullshit.


She began to believe that her awareness of how pseudo intellectual she really was made her at least a bit intelligent.


‎"You know, my medicine is going to run out--and I'm not going to take it anymore."
"Fine." He took off his wedding ring, "Then this is going to end, because I can't take you anymore."


 He had always assumed that the advice "Speak softly and carry a big stick" was suppose to be applied to getting layed.


Fine. I won't call you crazy. But you have to admit that there's something alarming when there's more of a chance that you're talking to yourself than talking on the phone.


As she tumbled through the rolling hills of grave-markers and and flowered tomb-stones, she watched from the corner of her eye the man talk to his closest friend about finally creating a college-fund for his daughter. She wondered if that sudden crack of thunder above them meant that the friend approved.


Standing in the bathroom, she stared down at the number on the scale. Her weight hadn't been this low in years, but her spirits weren't an ounce lighter.


Like a wounded gazelle the woman let herself be dragged into the crowd of gossip-queens and pregnant-teens, wincing as hands dragged themselves harshly through her hair, nails scratching her scalp.


He was born at 2 in the morning in the back of a cab underneath the Perseid meteor shower, and his momma named him Elvis because she said that nobody named Elvis ever led an uninteresting life.


He was the kind of kid who would give up his taste buds in exchange for a Klondike bar.


"That's what SHE said... to the paraplegic!" "Dude, I'm a paraplegic." "Seriously? I thought you were a Swede."


because not even ke$ha shines as much as you, and she pukes glitter.


Ke$ha can say what she wants, but the best dance parties are held over video chat, five thousand miles away from home, and completely sober.


there's nothing quite like the feeling you get, standing in front of the gaysian cult that is your friend group, and proclaiming that at long last, 'we are the new normal'.


As trying to explain english slang to the 4 non-native speakers grew frustrating, it turns out that duck-duck-goose really brought them all together in a mix of grass-stains and muddy knees.


She was drinking wine from a plastic cup and she had never felt so classy.


she woke up on a mattress is an unknown basement with fingers running through hair and the sound of humming buzzing through the air. she had never slept so well in her life, and never will again.


She didn't believe in love-in-real-life, because all the relationships that started with "Once upon a time..." ended with, "And that's how I caught him with another woman...oh, and one time a man."


If an idle mind was the devil's playground, then hers was Satan's fucking carnival, complete with a merry-go-round and everything else.


As she licks the remnants of melted, stolen chocolate from her finger-tips, and hopes the Icee stain on her shirt hadn't set, she secretly knew that if her sister ever came to her for help, she'd be there.


We all write for different reasons, but we all know that the best thing about these little stories is the chance to be somebody else for twenty-five words (or less).

Fact or Crap

"Fact or Crap: The button was invented 200 years before the buttonhole."


I don't remember the answer to that card. I don't really remember any answers since you left before you told me so let's start with a list.


Fact: The button would be stupid without the buttonhole. It just doesn't make sense.
(fact: i'm stupid without you.)


Fact: Buttons are pretty, though. I guess people could have used them as decoration or something.
(fact: is she pretty? that other woman? i bet she's pretty.)


Fact: Decorations usually stay decorative, though. I mean, nobody looks at a sequin and goes "Hey, I could fasten something with this!"
(fact: i bet you never think of me anymore, either. i wonder how long it took you to forget.)


Fact: The button was probably a Victorian invention or something though, right? And people thought of strange things back then.
(fact: i never saw it coming back then. i thought you were just tired. not tired of me.)


Fact: People still use buttons just for decoration. Like those buttons on the sleeves of dress shirts that you can never quite button by yourself.
(fact: you're still gone. i keep thinking you'll come back, like it was all just a joke, but this one's fact. you're still gone.)


Fact: So, I guess that could be true. Yeah, the button was probably invented first. That's a fact.
(fact: it doesn't matter. you're not around to hear the answer. it's just me playing now. that's a fact too.)


"Fact or Crap: I love you."
"...Fact."
"No. Crap."

Got That Glitter On My Eyes.

she was hot and dangerous.
she was on the edge of glory.
she was who she was.
she was a superstar.
she was breaking beds and boundaries.
she was everything that's right.

she was everything that pop music had taught me.

the center of attention,
standing in her hot-girl disguise,
ruling the world.

as she walked through the halls,
all I would ever hear would be the oh too familiar
fapfapfapfapfapfapfap.
the nerdy jocks with bright blue eyes trained on her lower body.
and she refused to respond.
'don't wanna kiss, don't wanna touch, just smoke one cigarette and hush'

at parties they would scream.
'let's play a love game'
'kiss me. k-k-kiss me.'
'if I had it my way, you know that I'd make her say..'
she would laugh and ignore.
and the next night I would watch her sob from my window.

so often I would glance out of my window into her house.
watch her peel off that hot-girl disguise bit by bit.
'take it off, take it off, everybody take it off'
eye her keenly, with glorious teenage judgment.
make up washed away, tissues removed, contacts disposed, retainer recovered.

a hot girl disguise, indeed.

and what reason for this hot-girl disguise if not to please her suitors?
if not to draw every present eye?
'she won't ever get enough, once she gets a little touch'

our world is blinded by beauty.
blinded by the bright stage lights.
blinded by the male ke$ha ejaculating in our eyes.
blinded by the brilliant shine on a spandex suit.
blinded by the alcohol poisoning.

because we fail to realize,
that although she is pretty,
although she is talented,
although the eye of the world is trained on her,
she isn't real.

but who needs reality when you have everything else?

happy birthday, america.

every year, lieutenant frederick ross spends the fourth of july settin' on his front porch in all the glory of his military uniform. don't matter if somebody having an independence day cookout down the street, complete with chicken and applesauce and lemonade and mama williams' best pies. don't matter what sorta parades the young'uns were carrying out along the roads. rain or shine, he's in his chair out front, his finery creatin' some aura of dignified stoicism around him, even as he occasion'lly draws a fat cigar to his wrinkled lips.

this afternoon, his imperious gaze oversees a handful of the neighborhood children chasing one another down the bluegrass-trimmed sidewalk, the girls decked out in their best blue and red gingham dresses and the boys sportin' patriotic scarves for the day. "happy july the fourth, mister ross," they call out as they fly across his lawn.

"happy fourth and god bless you," he musters the greeting in return, his voice gruff with age and weariness. "and it's lieutenant ross to y'all."

not that any of those youngsters are old enough to remember the war. see, they like him 'cause every year on this day, he go into his house in the evening after settin' all afternoon, and he and his wife, eliza, come out with a terrific box o' fireworks. after that, they set around some more with them fireworks on the lawn. at exactly midnight, he take his gun outta that uniform and right as he fires a shot in the air, all them fireworks go off in a great shower of flying color so the night's all sparklin' as he kisses his wife. the neighbors and children gather round every year for this spectacle as this ain't an everyday occurrence in south carolina.

tonight ain't any old fourth-o'-july night, though, because lieutenant ross is especially brusque and worn-out, even for the seventy-two year old man he is, and the whole town knows why. there ain't a soul who dare mention it aloud so as to hurt anyone's feelings, but today is his first independence day without his darling eliza, and everybody's silently curious as to how them fireworks are gonna be without her by his side.

some of the children watch as he gets up from his chair, works his way 'cross the porch, heads inside the house, and emerges with that annual box o' fireworks. instead of easin' back down into his chair, though, he goes back in an' brings out another box. and another. this year is gonna be quite the show.

quite the show indeed, the lieutenant muses as the gathering children gape at the enormous pile of fireworks on the lawn. i'm gonna make eliza happy tonight.

the only difference between this year and all the others was that the gunshot was aimed at lieutenant ross' temple, not the air. as his fingers crushed the trigger, he gave his country one last farewell. happy birthday, america. happy fucking birthday.