January 2012
2 posts
1 tag
3.
Her arm twitched beneath her head. She opened a cautious eye and realized that the curtains were mostly powerless against the bitter, winter morning light. A sound like a fire alarm was blaring from the speakers on her desk, and it was growing louder with each passing second. She rolled out of her lofted bed with surprising grace, absorbed the shock of the landing, recovered, and headed toward the...
2.
We see the crying child, and we feel bad. We say we feel bad without knowing what we mean. We reach into Childhood like a bowl of potpourri and attempt to pick out some kind of fragrant, freeze-dried moment like this, but we fail. We realize that this is our compensation for growing old; we do not empathize because we have the luxury of forgetting.
I am the crying child, and all I feel is the...
December 2011
1 post
1 tag
1.
A teenage bedroom with a periodic table on the wall, with thin strips of clear tape on the mirror where the polaroids had been. The room’s seen visits home from college and it’s seen mother’s sewing machine, and the dust is now like peach fuzz on a marble notebook underneath the bed where the following is written neatly and in blue: That time can make its mark on skin like mine is...