2.28a

He curled his toes, feeling the roughness of socks on carpet. She had looked at him with angry eyes when he tried to wear his shoes into her house. How was he to know? Nobody had ever made him take off his shoes before. She told him to sit on the couch and she'd be back. He sat, dutifully. She still hadn't come back.
He could smell old person smells oozing out of the wood panel walls. Cat urine and cough syrup and dead skin cells oppressed him.
The room was dark and oppressive, and the lamps did nothing to help. The furniture soaked up the pitiful light like sponges. Everything was dark. Everything was wood.

The carpet was old and thin. It scraped roughly against the bottoms of his feet.

2.25b

Whenever I see you, my brain releases a stream of dopamine that positively affects my mental state, tricking me into elation. If it weren't for the fear causing the concurrent stream of epinephrine that triggers my fight or flight response, I'd probably lose control and violate your personal space.

God, you're beautiful.

2.25a

Grandma always made the best food. It was rich, German cooking that filled you up after a single serving, but was so good that you had to go back for more. Cäse noodles? Case closed: yum.
The best was dessert. Mom never ever ever made desert. She was too concerned with our teeth. Grandma had different aims, however. She never cared about teeth, just about stomachs.

Chocolate cake--it feels decadent just saying it. And grandma made it just for us. We ate the meal with our eyes glued to the concealing tupperware lid. Under the white polyvinyl waited our cake. Dessert? Don't mind if I do!

And it tasted . . . bad. How?
Grandma realized. "Oh, I must have grabbed the wrong spice! I meant to grab cinnamon, but I got the paprika instead!"
Spicy chocolate cake, anyone? It doesn't sound decadent anymore.
Grandpa looked at his grandkids' funny faces and watery eyes, and then at Grandma.


He cut out a huge slice and slid it onto his plate.

2.23

I walk away whistling a jaunty tune.

Opening the door, I walk up the stairs. The whistle rockets at the speed of sound through the stairwell and bounces back to me. The discrepancy is enough to slow my brain to join with the tempo of the echo. My feet slow with the song, stamping with the beat. I slow more until the jaunt is out of my tune and I'm humming a dirge. I eventually slow to one note and one step. I stand on one step, humming a single note, long and low and reverent.

I run out of air and gasp into the silence. There's a twisted mouth on my face. It isn't mine. I'm supposed to be happy. The knotted eyebrows agree with my grimace. Whatever person lies under this face isn't thrilled about something.

I try humming again, but it doesn't feel right to disturb the cathedral of the stairwell. I try cursing instead. That's not much better. It at least sums up my mood, so I do it again, quietly.

2.22

He'll press the button and hold it for a long moment, staring at the blue screen in frustration and anger.

Release.

The fans will spin down and the hard drives stop whirring and the lights turn off and the beep stop and the monitor fade to black and the room will fall silent.

That's how they'll turn off my Grandma.

2.21c

Another c edition. These happen too often. I should update every day.

He danced a little in the snow and the breeze. The snow was so dry that it squeaked with every movement that he made. He could see his breath in the air, clouding to the sky. It was ripped out of his mouth by the wind.
He didn't mind, though.
She was coming.

He waited without impatience, in the snow, letting his breath solidify.
The air tore past him and stung his cheeks. His eyes watered in the wind and the cold. The tears slowly rolled down his cheeks. The trails evaporated. He squeezed his eyes closed and focused on the wind. He could feel every gust like sandpaper. He waited.

He could hear squeaking towards him. He opened his eyes and smiled.

2.21b

They're lounging on the bench, wrapped around each other and breathing down each other's necks. Every once in a while, you can hear air squeeze between them. It's like putting your ear to a shell--air hisses past crevices.
Vomitous.

2.21a

I'm so happy that everything I think of writing is happy too. I want to be depressing, but not be depressed. Is that so selfish?

He started ripping off the long strip of paper. Slowly and methodically, the fibers slowly separate from each other. His tear is perfectly straight and long and clean. The worst part is that he isn't even watching.
He lines up the ends and looks for the wider one. They're perfectly aligned. He doesn't care. He grabs the one that he feels is wider and ties it into an overhand knot. He pulls it tight and flattens it. He starts wrapping the strip around itself again
and again
and again
and again
and again
and he pulls it tight and flattens it again.
He pinches the sides of his pentagon and the paper roils and tents and crushes, fibers snapping and bending. He takes the fat little paper star and looks at it for a long moment.

He drops it into the bottle with the rest.
He starts working on the next star.

2.18a

I don't have anything to say, so I keep talking.

The committee just looks at me blankly as I rattle off facts about my project. I'm hoping that they accept my proposal, but with every minute my chances decrease. They keep asking me useless questions for which I don't have answers. I keep spouting the same statistics and the same platitudes. Soon, sweat is rolling down my back. My arms are chilly and my palms are clammy. I can feel fire creeping up my neck. I'm sure that I'm beet red.

I feel so insignificant.

2.17c

Hooray, another "c" edition of like lippincott. I fail a bit, but it's okay I guess.

He looked through the viewfinder, but couldn't find the view.

"Excuse me, sir? Can you please move a bit to the side? I'm trying to take a picture of my son, and if you don't mind . . . Thank you."

The camera whirred slowly as it struggled to focus on the distance. He started recording. Nothing happened for ages. Suddenly, he saw movement. A pair of boots moved up the ladder and disappeared into the shining white carapace. Only a few minutes left.

The proud father zoomed out to get a better shot. He could hear the speakers in the background yelling numbers, decreasing every half minute.

The time arrived; every nerve in his body tingled. His son had lived for this day. His son had worked for this day. His son had struggled and strove. He was so proud.

Ten to one and then

Ignition.

No lift, just fire. Too much fire.

The camera flew into the grass. It whirred slowly as it focused on his flying feet.

He was running to save his son from forces beyond his ken. Who would tell him that there was nothing left to save?

2.17b

He always thought the sappy stuff.

"Hey, I'm going to go to the fridge? Is there anything you need?"

I need you, more than anything else in the world.

Where did that come from?

"Wow, those fireworks look awesome!"

Not until they're reflected in your eyes.

That's stupid. Really really stupid.

"Why do you keep coming back?"
Because I can't leave you.

She'd laugh at me.

"You look happy!"

Because I'm with you.

Sappy. Stupid. Dumb. Dorky.

He always thought the sappy stuff.

He never said it.

2.17a

He fell to the floor, panting in exhaustion. Never before had he cared so little about so much. His feet ached, his legs felt like rubber, his chest felt like fire, his heart felt like death itself, his head felt like a migraine, and his hands he couldn't feel at all.

He couldn't remember his work, or his children, or his wife, or his mother, or his bills, or his depression. He just sat and listened to the blood rush through his ears, thumping with a dull woosh twice every eternity as time slowed to a halt.

Run: it's good for you.

2.14b

It's not technically the fourteenth anymore, but who cares? Here's my free-verse blank-form poem.

I couldn't think of anything to write.
so I asked a girl out
She said okay

I still can't think of anything to write.

2.14a

(Just so you know: this was prompted by VD. I'm not gonna lie about it, but I really really want to.)

When I'm married, I will hold my wife's hand.

I see couples wandering aimlessly, holding hands and wrapping themselves around each other and getting a good taste of each other and generally focusing on the high life and the heat and the passion and the good times and the rock and roll. The one thing they all have in common is that they're not married. It's like marriage knocks the wind out of people. Why is that? Is it because they realize that they have the rest of their life to discover the person standing in front of them? Why would they put it off?
I hereby solemnly swear to hold my wife's hand in public. She may be mortified and grief-stricken that her husband would commit such a grievous breach of protocol (is there protocol like that? I haven't seen the handbook) but by gum I'm going to do it and see if I don't.
I don't want to look like the adults I've seen: like two people who just happen to be living together and caring for the same kids.
If I love her, the world's gonna know it. I will hold her hand.

2.12b

Just the other day, a friend praised me for how fast on my (mental) feet I am. I am, apparently, swift. Just today, I was singing a song as I walked, and LO AND BEHOLD a voice hearkened forth from the dorm.
"Your voice sucks!"
My reply? "Why, thank you!"

I could have said "My mother doesn't think so," or "Your mother doesn't think so," or "Dr. Kibble doesn't think so," (which may or may not be true, and he may not even know who she is) or "Sometimes I'm used as a form of illegal torture, but I'm out of a job since Guantanamo shut down," or "I've heard that from a lot of gay guys before," or VIRTUALLY ANYTHING EXCEPT WHAT I SAID.

L'esprit d'escalier. Staircaise Ghost, is what the french call it. Coming up with an insult hours after the fact. I assume that it happens a lot to other people too. I just wanted to let you all know that it is, in fact, a shortcoming that plagues me as well.