Birth?

A few nights ago I wrote a story. A whole story. It feels so good to be able to say that. Sure, it is only two pages with one and a half line spaces between each line, but... It is a whole story.

It tells the brief tale of two children, two brothers, and what they find beside the creek. I would post it but I am just so proud of this work that I think I will submit it to... some establishment which publishes short fiction.

The best part is that I wrote the whole thing at work, on two pages of regular printer paper. I typed it up, edited briefly and am now circulating it amongst close friends whose opinions I respect when it comes to my literary productions.

So, if you were looking for something other than what you found in this post, I am sorry. I just felt the need to share this great news.

Snips [3]

Yay, more snips. I still don't take pictures because I am lazy and tired all the time. Also, I wrote the last part when I was drunk and dramatic, so forgive me the excess.

:

cut jeans, collared shirts;
flashes and studio lights
in the crystal ball?

...

He feels the anxiety creep up his toes like a five year old's night terrors realized and begins to bite his fingernails. They bleed quickly,matching the speed of his nibbling. The blanket falls from his confidence and he is shown his true image: a scared boy in a town much larger than anything he is used to.

...

i want a girl
with a fire inside
her head.
i want a girl
with legs up to here
who walks over there.
i want a girl
who likes to go down
to the library.
and i want a girl
who wants me to know
it's okay to say i like comic books
and who thinks they're cool too.

...

The rose wilts and he tosses the petals in the freezer. To cool their beauty and bring it to the blackest ends. The dying green turns to rot and refuse, the ooze on the leaves giving a hundred shades of putrid scent. Where is the romance of a dying rose? When will the symbol mean something again.

Have A Good Day

I have a job. It isn't a good job, a hard job, a tiring job. It is a job. I work to get paid so I can live and work to get paid. And after every midnight shift, the walk home is a walk of shame.

You may be familiar with the walk of shame. You may have even taken one or two or twelve in recent months. You don't necessarily feel totally clean or proud of what you've done, but you know it was worth it. Or you hope it was. That is how every midnight shift at my job makes me feel. I walk home and wonder if I am really spending my time in the best way. Shifting my sleeping patterns to the undead hours, my eating habits. The sun hits my face as it rises over the diminutive buildings on the main street, a familiar roadway, and I wonder. What else could I be doing? Is there something I should be doing?

But it doesn't matter. I work to get paid so I can live and work to get paid some more. I feel a little dirty, a little self-disrespect. A level between zero and point-zero one accomplishment. Lost time. But it doesn't matter.

My workspace is tiny.
Tiny as a microorganism.
Minuscule is the impact
of the register's balance.
And yet I sit
with music on,
watching the cars drive by.

Misfortune; Treason

I am a part of history. I am the filler, the space between the big names. The air between the grains of sand or the time it takes for glue to harden. I carry the impact of a millipede and the burden of a breeze, with a voice no louder than the noise in black space. I am a day with contenting weather, a bead of sweat on a gigantic organism. The sun does not rise or shine or fall for me, the seas do not roll their waves and run their currents for me, and the books do not bend their spines into creases and breaks for me.

I am the hunter with no blade or bow, a man without fists, bearing no power to strike. The blade with no edge. The edge with no vertex. I am motion without energy, kinetics without force, friction without touching.

A wishing well has no magic; it is superstition. Success is subjective and dependent upon the context. Prosperity is in the heart. A family, for one, is a measure of worth; for another, a curse.

I am a part of history. The part that gets left out of the history books.

You are, too.