It happened at a stop light. He had been told it would one day, and it did. Like a flash of heat lightning, unexpected and violent, the feeling overtook him. He wanted to be free. He knew he was not who he was supposed to be, where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing. And he wanted out: out of the city, out of his car, out of his body, out of his mind. The light was still red; he could go nowhere. He felt suddenly as if he had broken out in hives (though there was no physical manifestation of this supposed ailment) and he began to itch his skin furiously, secretly thinking that if he could just scratch it off he would feel satisfied. His lungs felt too big for his chest cavity, his heart wanted to jump right through his shirt. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel nervously, waiting for the light to change. Those lights held so long... He felt as if everyone was staring at him; he just wanted out. A second later the red switched to green in what seemed to be slow motion. Finally.
[Ending 1 (the realist)]
His foot timidly touched the gas pedal and shattered the feeling. He relaxed back into his seat and his skin and drove home. Maybe another day he would get out.
[Ending 2 (the romantic)]
He tried to act casual, but failed miserably. He threw his foot on the gas pedal and sped through the intersection and then onto the highway and then past the exit for his parents' house. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there, but he was out.
Showing posts with label Creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Creative. Show all posts
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
creative bit: bilingual (or, how to maximize profits, minimize humanity)
we all speak two languages: money and sex
with that aesthetic twang.
yeah, she's got a pretty voice;
it rings like the bell on the stock exchange floor,
soothes like the kind of love you pay for.
when he talks, dollar signs roll off his tongue;
yeah, they'd sell their souls just to hear one syllable.
we'd sooner see a man enslaved
than abandon our business practices, nice sweaters.
comfort > humanity
*possibly unfinished
with that aesthetic twang.
yeah, she's got a pretty voice;
it rings like the bell on the stock exchange floor,
soothes like the kind of love you pay for.
when he talks, dollar signs roll off his tongue;
yeah, they'd sell their souls just to hear one syllable.
we'd sooner see a man enslaved
than abandon our business practices, nice sweaters.
comfort > humanity
*possibly unfinished
Sunday, December 25, 2011
creative bit: wait
Corner of 6th and Congress. She waits for the bus like she waits for love. She knows it's coming but she's early; her faith rides on it, but it's just taking her to another destination. She just wants somebody to walk next to, somebody to share a seat with. So she settles; she gives it away hoping in time her love will be returned. But she knows it never will. She's battered and scarred; they left holes in her fragile heart. Some days she feels like she's all fragments held together by children's glue, an amalgamation of cheap love and insecurity, hopes and dreams and wishes on stars. She's waiting for the day she'll be healed, waiting for the next boy to come fix her.
The bus comes, but no number of quarters will take her to her happily ever after. So she drops in her change and slides into her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's different this time. At least she feels different. Is she really different?
The all-too-common tornado of thoughts inside her head rages, but she silences it. Looks down at the cheap, tarnished heart bracelet her last last boyfriend-savior gave her and pulls it away from her wrist until it breaks. Until she breaks. Closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, she touches the inside of her wrist, feels her heartbeat pulsing, pumping blood to and from her hands, fingers. Slowly she opens her eyes again and sees the same world; she sits in her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's free.
The bus comes, but no number of quarters will take her to her happily ever after. So she drops in her change and slides into her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's different this time. At least she feels different. Is she really different?
The all-too-common tornado of thoughts inside her head rages, but she silences it. Looks down at the cheap, tarnished heart bracelet her last last boyfriend-savior gave her and pulls it away from her wrist until it breaks. Until she breaks. Closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, she touches the inside of her wrist, feels her heartbeat pulsing, pumping blood to and from her hands, fingers. Slowly she opens her eyes again and sees the same world; she sits in her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's free.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
creative bit: clarity
She used to know where she was going.
She used to know who she was.
She used to know what she was going to do with her life.
Now she sat in a coffee shop, a fragmentary, fragile girl. So many paths lay before her, each taking her to a totally different place, a new adventure she'd never expected. So many paths lay behind her, some simply ended, some blocked for one reason or another. She felt at once both unnecessary and as if too much was demanded of her. At any moment, she felt, she might burst into a million different colored pieces that would shoot across the globe and she would finally feel satisfied. But instead she sat, her body in one piece, her mind in a million.
Catharsis has a funny way of coming right at the exact moment we need it most. She took a sip of her coffee, looked out the window at the busy street wet with the recent rain, and knew.
She used to know who she was.
She used to know what she was going to do with her life.
Now she sat in a coffee shop, a fragmentary, fragile girl. So many paths lay before her, each taking her to a totally different place, a new adventure she'd never expected. So many paths lay behind her, some simply ended, some blocked for one reason or another. She felt at once both unnecessary and as if too much was demanded of her. At any moment, she felt, she might burst into a million different colored pieces that would shoot across the globe and she would finally feel satisfied. But instead she sat, her body in one piece, her mind in a million.
Catharsis has a funny way of coming right at the exact moment we need it most. She took a sip of her coffee, looked out the window at the busy street wet with the recent rain, and knew.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
creative bit: dreams
He didn't speak. He couldn't. He knew that if he did, she would wake. And he didn't want that; he didn't know what he wanted. So he watched her sleep, watched her breath rise and fall, watched the scenes of her dreams unfold. He let her imagination take him captive, her dreams became his. He lingered there, in the space they shared, watched his character act out his role in the life of her's.
Realization brought him back. He was back in that room with the sunlight beginning to pour in through the window. She was asleep; he was awake. And he didn't know what he wanted.
He turned away from her and began studying the aging wood that made up the window frame, and thinking. What would life look like with her in it? Was he even capable of including another character in it? Could he be faithful? What was love? How many children did he want? The answers came as a flood, not as particular answers to particular questions but as one big answer to an even bigger, all-encompassing question. Beautiful; yes; she was the only one he wanted; work; four.
He knew what he wanted. He was more sure of it than anything in his whole life. He turned back to her, the words nearly dripping from his mouth. They died on his lips. She was gone; slipped away. Her spot was still warm, for she had just been there. But there was no sign of her. She was gone - for good this time.
He had waited too long.
**This was not intentionally depressing. My apologies.
Realization brought him back. He was back in that room with the sunlight beginning to pour in through the window. She was asleep; he was awake. And he didn't know what he wanted.
He turned away from her and began studying the aging wood that made up the window frame, and thinking. What would life look like with her in it? Was he even capable of including another character in it? Could he be faithful? What was love? How many children did he want? The answers came as a flood, not as particular answers to particular questions but as one big answer to an even bigger, all-encompassing question. Beautiful; yes; she was the only one he wanted; work; four.
He knew what he wanted. He was more sure of it than anything in his whole life. He turned back to her, the words nearly dripping from his mouth. They died on his lips. She was gone; slipped away. Her spot was still warm, for she had just been there. But there was no sign of her. She was gone - for good this time.
He had waited too long.
**This was not intentionally depressing. My apologies.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Creative: Childhood in a Box (b-side)
So this is a poem I wrote about a year ago, just for funsies. It has b-side in the title because it was a follow-up to an earlier poem that was really just a list of weird things I found in a shoebox from my childhood that I slapped a cool rhythm on. Anyway, this one is way better just because it's not a list. And it has a rhyme scheme of sorts. Disclaimer: This is, in fact, a fictional poem about a fictional homeless girl. I, of course, did not grow up in a box pent up with my hopes and fears.
Once upon a time
There lived a girl who
Hadn’t a dime.
And she hadn’t a house
And she always wore the same dress
And she always had a streak of dirt upon her brow.
Well since she had no real place to reside,
She lived in a box in an alley between Front Street and 3rd
With an old stuffed bear in whom she did confide.
And every now and then she would upgrade,
But mostly she would just stay the same.
So she passed all of her childhood years
Pent up in a box with all her hopes and fears
Once upon a time
There lived a girl who
Hadn’t a dime.
And she hadn’t a house
And she always wore the same dress
And she always had a streak of dirt upon her brow.
Well since she had no real place to reside,
She lived in a box in an alley between Front Street and 3rd
With an old stuffed bear in whom she did confide.
And every now and then she would upgrade,
But mostly she would just stay the same.
So she passed all of her childhood years
Pent up in a box with all her hopes and fears
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
repost: frail
This is a poem I wrote and posted almost a year ago. I just rediscovered it and realized how fitting it is for this time in my life. And personally, I kind of like it.
A frail thing am I,
Fraught, I am, with selfish desire,
Uncertainty, and pride.
With greedy aspirations have I fashioned my own funeral pyre -
But with His graceful hand has He turned the tide.
Frail though I am,
He sought me, pursued me,
Never yielding, though I ran and ran.
I fought, but my body gave out, my legs grew weary.
And I collapsed, bone-tired, into His strong, waiting arms -
And never was the same.
A frail thing am I,
Fraught, I am, with selfish desire,
Uncertainty, and pride.
With greedy aspirations have I fashioned my own funeral pyre -
But with His graceful hand has He turned the tide.
Frail though I am,
He sought me, pursued me,
Never yielding, though I ran and ran.
I fought, but my body gave out, my legs grew weary.
And I collapsed, bone-tired, into His strong, waiting arms -
And never was the same.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
creative bit: sick
Sick of doing things I despise, just to get by.
Sick of being pushed into a corner.
Sick of never getting what I want.
Sick of watching the world fly by while I remain stationary.
Sick of not participating because I am too busy surviving.
Sick of repeating my own poor-girl manifesto as I wait for life to start.
I force my body to rise from my concrete floor-chair, joints popping, and cross to the dirty window in my apartment. Wiping a hand across it, I make a clear line through the grime and peer outside. I see the dirt under my own fingernails, but choose to look past them and see instead the endless expanse of bright blue sky, the warm rays of the June sun, a cloud shaped like an elephant, a free-spirited sparrow soaring, the vibrant life in the Manhattan street below. These things present themselves to me in slow-motion, like hearing, seeing, and tasting present themselves to a newborn. Something swells up inside of me, I feel the waves of it lapping against my rib cage, dying to be set free. Action? Intention? The feeling of being fully alive? I become dizzy with it, whatever it is. I am sweetly intoxicated. The light intensifies, colors come to life. I am cognizant of another reality, existing secretly just beneath the surface of what I thought was truth. I store all these things in my memory, to have something to pull out in the dark days to come.
Life will never be the same.
Sick of being pushed into a corner.
Sick of never getting what I want.
Sick of watching the world fly by while I remain stationary.
Sick of not participating because I am too busy surviving.
Sick of repeating my own poor-girl manifesto as I wait for life to start.
I force my body to rise from my concrete floor-chair, joints popping, and cross to the dirty window in my apartment. Wiping a hand across it, I make a clear line through the grime and peer outside. I see the dirt under my own fingernails, but choose to look past them and see instead the endless expanse of bright blue sky, the warm rays of the June sun, a cloud shaped like an elephant, a free-spirited sparrow soaring, the vibrant life in the Manhattan street below. These things present themselves to me in slow-motion, like hearing, seeing, and tasting present themselves to a newborn. Something swells up inside of me, I feel the waves of it lapping against my rib cage, dying to be set free. Action? Intention? The feeling of being fully alive? I become dizzy with it, whatever it is. I am sweetly intoxicated. The light intensifies, colors come to life. I am cognizant of another reality, existing secretly just beneath the surface of what I thought was truth. I store all these things in my memory, to have something to pull out in the dark days to come.
Life will never be the same.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
creative: conventional wisdom
they tell you not to rock the boat,
to go with the flow,
to Let it Be.
they tell you to be different,
to swim against the stream,
to fight the machine.
they tell you to stop and smell the roses,
to wake up and smell the coffee,
to enjoy the simple things.
they tell you all's fair in love and war,
that it's better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all.
you can bet your bottom dollar
that conventional wisdom
is the sugar that helps the medicine go down.
written circa november, two-thousand nine
to go with the flow,
to Let it Be.
they tell you to be different,
to swim against the stream,
to fight the machine.
they tell you to stop and smell the roses,
to wake up and smell the coffee,
to enjoy the simple things.
they tell you all's fair in love and war,
that it's better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all.
you can bet your bottom dollar
that conventional wisdom
is the sugar that helps the medicine go down.
written circa november, two-thousand nine
creative: frail
A frail thing am I,
Fraught, I am, with selfish desire,
Uncertainty, and pride.
With greedy aspirations have I fashioned my own funeral pyre -
But with His graceful hand has He turned the tide.
Frail though I am,
He sought me, pursued me,
Never yielding, though I ran and ran.
I fought, but my body gave out, my legs grew weary.
And I collapsed, bone-tired, into His strong, waiting arms -
And never was the same.
written june the eighth, two-thousand and ten
Fraught, I am, with selfish desire,
Uncertainty, and pride.
With greedy aspirations have I fashioned my own funeral pyre -
But with His graceful hand has He turned the tide.
Frail though I am,
He sought me, pursued me,
Never yielding, though I ran and ran.
I fought, but my body gave out, my legs grew weary.
And I collapsed, bone-tired, into His strong, waiting arms -
And never was the same.
written june the eighth, two-thousand and ten
creative: twilight spectrum
a spectrum of blues overtakes the sky -
above the horizon lies
dark blue and
bright blue and
sea blue and
royal blue and
color-of-your-eyes blue.
above a facade of black trees lies
cerulean blue and
sapphire blue and
purple-y blue and
robin's egg blue and
shadow-on-the-sidewalk blue.
well ,if the sky wears his mood on his sleeve,
he might be a sleepy sort of
sad
tonight. or,
he might be a vibrant sort of
satisfied
tonight.
Mr. Sky, could you please
clarify
your emotions tonight, sir?
written may the fifth, two-thousand and ten
above the horizon lies
dark blue and
bright blue and
sea blue and
royal blue and
color-of-your-eyes blue.
above a facade of black trees lies
cerulean blue and
sapphire blue and
purple-y blue and
robin's egg blue and
shadow-on-the-sidewalk blue.
well ,if the sky wears his mood on his sleeve,
he might be a sleepy sort of
sad
tonight. or,
he might be a vibrant sort of
satisfied
tonight.
Mr. Sky, could you please
clarify
your emotions tonight, sir?
written may the fifth, two-thousand and ten
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