Translation

I dreamt that you stood by my bookshelf and flipped through the pages of my favorite book. The rustles and scents rolled off of you like a release of dandelion seeds tumbling through the air, drawing eyes toward–

I dreamt that you took my hand and led me and we danced seamlessly, circulating like the steady chime of a grandfather clock, familiar and safe and warm, your nose just above mine, lips so close but not quite just there, though we breathed the same air.

Inhale

Exhale

I dreamt of the strength, firm beneath my fingers, that I could reach out and grasp without fear. Apprehension did not hold me back, it was absent and the barrier between mind and movement too evaporated in favor of boldness. The swelling in my chest, the roiling, the blossoming, that pains but pleasures like the tearing of muscles that rebuild–

I dreamt:

that I allowed myself to give you permission to set the butterflies afire in my stomach so I can jump in the deep end

that I unclenched my fists and the butterflies, they will burst in a flurry of wings and cloud the air we breathe when they scramble out from my throat to be swallowed by you.

And maybe the crescent moon lashes that sweep across your cheeks will flutter in tandem like the way we move when we dance.

The dream:

You were in it but it was about me. What holds me back. What prevents me. What strikes lancing barbs in my chest.

Outside of the dream, I just might smooth away the choking tingles and reach out, so maybe we'll dance again. You are sturdy and stable and solid, and I, a bendy tumble of waves and sensation. We, a unit. If we dance, you and I, as one, a smile will break through, that was held back by fear and stiffness and norms and–

there it is

release

*lovely source of de-stressing at around four in the morning (the college struggle is so real)

Collection

1
The girl holds her keys looped round her fingers and leans against the doorframe. The boy halts in his slowing footsteps and tucks his hands into khaki pants pockets, looking at her with sleepy eyes. She crosses her arms loosely, and one side of her mouth tugs up; her eyes soften in affection, one that arrives most poignantly in the sweetly stinging past-midnight hours. The conversation drops in tone, slightly above a whisper, in accordance to the sudden peace that accompanies a stop in movement. There is no lingering awkwardness, no urgency. Just quiet, punctuated by muted murmurs.

2
A boy and a girl stand side by side at the top of a mountain; fields of gold roll on and on below their vantage point. The night wraps around them, soft and warm like a lullaby. The sky is incredibly clear where they are. The girl raises her eyes from the tops of the trees to the belly of the sky, silently counting stars, drinking in the child-like twinkles and winks. She blinks slowly, once, twice, wispy eyelashes dusting high cheekbones, and lowers her eyes slowly to catch the tender gaze of her companion. With slow assuredness, he reaches out and links his index and middle fingers with hers, a relaxed but clear gesture of steady affection.

3
Her head is heavy against his chest. It's a natural weight. Without it, he feels oddly absent. For her, not hearing his warm heartbeat beneath her cheek is a silence that presses in too tightly. They don't have to speak. They communicate with an index finger softly stroking up the spine, or a light tug of a belt loop, or a tracing of the left ear shell. Sometimes when they're like this, intertwined loosely, she'll draw back slightly and sigh almost imperceptibly, as he dips to brush his lips against her forehead, always a little bit off center. When in physical contact, they move in tandem.

*may be updated in the future if another romantic mood strikes me, haha

Hello, my name is:

I'm a cliché.

There, I said it. After years of trying futilely to dig up random nuances that would prove that I'm a unique little star, a marbled grain of sand among billions of uniform specks, I've recognized it–I'm a cliché.

Yeah, so I thought I was pretty cool, with my little imagination and identity crises and "I'm totally not like other girls" attitude. Eventually my brain started yearning for a return; it was shouting at me, "hey, who the hell do you think you are, throwing me out and replacing me with some wannabe?"

I'm that girl who pretends not to be a romantic, but secretly yearns for the fireworks and explosive passions of angsty 90s dramas. I'm that girl with an inflated ego, but sporting a crushingly massive inferiority complex. I'm that girl who can be pushed over the edge, to near-tears, with a couple of emotional phrases. I'm that girl who thinks she's the best listener in the world "because I'm an introvert". I'm that girl who says "okay" listlessly but doesn't do. I'm that girl who thinks she can fix what's been broken beyond repair. I'm that girl who's "lost".

Or–I was?

Ha, nah, I still am. My brain wants to come back, sure, but here's the thing about me and pretty much everyone else (because I'm a cliché, there are others like me, right?)–we hear the logic. Oh yeah, we can hear it banging and clanging away from the outskirts of our extremely thick skulls. But we love to ignore. If there's something we're–I'm–truly, genuinely good at doing, it's ignoring. Willfully.

The only thing remotely special about me is that I've somehow mastered the art of balancing the ratio of milk to cereal. That's pretty fucking awesome, if I do say so myself.

Which obviously I just did, because this whole thing is about myself. Here I am, talking about myself like a self-absorbed brat masquerading as a thoughtful, introspective soul with the wisdom garnered from aging, teenage years. What a cliché, right?

The Strop

We are in a strop.
I don't care what you say
For it is what it is.

We are in a strop.
The bitterness of words left unspoken
Sit rancid on my tongue.

When our eyes meet
It's a tacit statement of everything we don't say
We just can't be the way we were.

As soon as I
See you, I think
Repulsion resentment regret

When you see me
I see it
Apprehension ambivalence aggravation.

We are not
We were never
A perfect unit, everlasting, connection.

I despise you.
I tell myself that every spare moment
Coaching my errant brain

Only way to cope
With the stagnant pull between us
Is to hate and hate more, to insert something anything--

Did you know?
History does repeat itself.
How many times has it been?

Once, twice, thrice--oh, third time's the charm
This time
It will be to break for good.

Inevitable
We fooled ourselves into thinking
We could bridge the distance, the distance that always was

Because
I thought the distance was the temporal
But it's the connection that proves ephemeral.

We could never stick
Like half-dried glue on styrofoam
We always peel apart.

And it's not that we are in a strop
We are the strop.

You
Me

It's not you me

It will always be

You                                                                                                                   Me

everything.

they leave me for dead.

There is a boy who has taken everything from me, 

laid me bare, shown me to the world for who i am, allowed me to rebuild myself, 

and then torn me back down again. 

he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. 

i do everything for him and i love him i love him 

i love him 

so much and 

i don’t even know why. 

here he is 

in my life for the years, years years

and i can’t let go. i can never let go. 

i try so hard and i tell myself, 

you can do better 

that feeling in your stomach is telling you no. 

yet– 

my heart throbs uncontrollably and pulls me forward, ties a noose round my neck 

and forces me to him every time. 

i am not in control. 

i love him so, and yet i will never fully have him–his eyes are laid elsewhere–and he can’t see what’s in front of him.

There is my home, 
that is not my home. things left unspoken, ties breaking, tensions simmering below the surface. 
things we feel but cannot say. we 

look 

at each other 
and a million messages float 
through 
the 
air, 

but never reach the other side. a single fire let loose, and it cannot be contained 

it burns slowly 
and 
gradually, almost that we cannot see it until it’s too late. 

she will not listen. 

and their tears flow 
unrestrained and i stand, 

caught in the middle, 

unable to comprehend. it’s too early to deal with things like these. one side tries to reach across, but 
it's thwarted. 

always, 
reality just cuts through everything you ever thought you had. 
and 
you’re broken. 
it’s not yours. 
you’re not in control of what happens. 
it just does. 

There is the place i thought i was 

safe 

but no more. 
he’s gone. 
the one i went to, the one i spoke to, the one with whom i could close my eyes and feel his presence and not be afraid. 
i struggle to look at the place now. 
i can’t be in the room and not 
feel the memories. 
i can’t be in the vicinity and not remember 

what could have been. 

i can’t stand there 

up on that stage 

and look down at our dwindling numbers, fading fading 
and not see how we crumble. 

what are we? 

no 
more. 
i cannot bear it and i am here for a while longer, but 
my companions? 
true, there are few, but 

what of them? 

they will be here for the 
rest 
of their lives, 
dealing with the same problems 

again and again, 

facing opposition 

over and over again, 

unable to reach a compromise, hearing venomous words in a place that’s proclaimed clean.

what are we? 

we are nothing. 
we are helpless. 
and i’m a single speck among so many others, smaller than some, larger than some, but suffering all the same. and in the end, we are nothing, because nobody will stop to help.

they leave me for dead.

paper cranes

so he thought he could do anything.

He folded a paper crane once.
Fold over, tuck under, fold, fold fold

fold

in foiled paper that fractured bits of sunlight and pierced sight in just the right way

or patterned scraps of sinewy cherry blossom trees, delicate droplet petals

or just crinkled bits picked from the corners of a folder or desk or backpack.

And each time he folded one

carefully

creased with the side of his chewed-down thumbnail

measured the edges with one eye squinting shut 

he felt a blooming heat in the center of his chest

a burgeoning pride in the pit of his stomach, like

He can do something right. 

He can do something well.

But there are thousands more

(millions)

who can do that in their sleep

whose fingers dance like spindly water cranes 

whose movements rapid rush so

no sound is made.

They could grind him with the tip of a tapered index finger into finely milled sand–

He thought he could do anything.

He thought he could do anything

he could do anything

anything

any

She Calls it Therapy

*Violence is usually not the answer.

     "I wonder how much high school counselors make." 

     And here we go. Five minutes into dinner… a record. No dinner with my family is complete without an irritatingly drawn-out 'discussion' about future careers and college. Not according to my dad, anyway. I wish I didn't have to call him that.

     I shrug noncommittally. 

     "Not as much as teachers," my mom quips. Dammit. Her too?!

     "Well, of course high school teachers have stable jobs. You know, you could come back here to the Silicon Valley, get a job as an teacher, and marry an engineer. A stable life," he says, annoyingly casually.

     In my head my hand grips a wooden-handled knife tightly. Holy fuck, I don't want to be a fucking high school teacher! Why the fuck would I ever want to go back to that purgatory?

     I plaster a toothy grin on my face. "Let's not get too ahead ourselves here," I laugh, and the sound is so fake I wonder how the idiots buy it every fucking day. "I need to get into college first. We can plan marriages later." If I'm lucky you won't be here by then. 

     Of course, they don't laugh like they're supposed to. But this isn't a perfect world. It's a world of shitheads and dunces. My dad frowns, and I wish I could cut away that mouth. A tomato knife, maybe. That split end of the knife could be fun. I imagine using it to pick away the ragged edges of skin. 

     "…how you expect to make a living on $40,000 a year in New York City," my dad is saying when I return from my thoughts. Holy motherfucking shit, he never shuts up! "You need to be more practical."

     "Sure," I deadpan. 

     "Don't give me that attitude," he snaps. I imagine whipping out a frozen food saw, watching the muted lamp light glint off the metal, and driving it into his chest, twisting it. The notches on the edge of the blade would dig a fantastic circle. Amused, I think of the bushido code of the Japanese samurais. What was their form of honorable suicide called? They would drive a sword into their stomachs and try to carve a complete circle… What was the name?

     I must have smiled absently while lost in my fantasy because my dad glares at me and says in what he thinks is a threatening voice (ha), "Don't you laugh at me, young lady! I've had enough of your antics!" 'Young lady'? Where the fuck does he get off? And 'antics'? Is this guy for real? 

     "How's your physics preparation going?" My mom smiles kindly as if she thinks she's rescuing me or something. Yeah, as if. This is just going to fan the flames. 

     "Yes, what is the point of taking that? You've already taken Literature, U.S. History, and math 2. You're just going to get a low score and then that will ruin your applications," goes the man's extremely grating voice. A simple slicer knife would probably sever four out of five fingers cleanly. That would be fun. Doing it on a cutting board and being able to sweep off the dismembered digits dramatically–even better. 

     "I already told you, they want to see a well-rounded student." I try to think calming thoughts so I don't lose my shit. Think of the fingers, think of the fingers...

     "Who?" my dad scoffs. 

     "The colleges," I barely refrain from raising my voice. Holy shit, what a fucking imbecile. 

     My dad does that annoying tsk thing, like he knows everything. Right. Okay then, you useless lump. "You already took math." 

     Duh, genius. "Yeah, but I don't have a science," I say slowly, because clearly speaking to him is like speaking to a severely backwards three-year old. 

     "Okay, fine. So what have you done so far?" 

     "I took a diagnostic already. I wrote that in the plan I e-mailed you, along with all the reasons I'm taking the test," I say, bored. 

     "Did you record a score?"

     "I wanted to see which subjects I forgot first. I'll take another one where I'll calculate an actual score." Jesus, someone gut me already! 

     "But what was the score?" Fuck, as if it wasn't clear enough! I imagine filleting the big dumb brute. Although, I would need a fucking giant fillet knife for that. Why can't I recall the samurai suicide method?!

     "I practically just said, I used the first diag for review." If looks could kill… agh, wishful thinking. 

     "You need to make a plan," my mom says severely. Are you serious?! As punishment for her 'contribution' to the 'discussion', I imagine using a tourné to shred the spider veins in her lower legs into lovely, skinny ribbons. What a fucking party this is turning out to be. 

     "No one take you seriously if you don't make a plan. Including us," my dad snipes. Yeah, do I look like I care? 

     It takes me a moment to see that they're staring at me in stupid disbelief, and I realize I just said that out loud. Fuck. 

     "You better start helping yourself, young lady," ugh, again?! "No one is going to help you if you can't help yourself."

     "You can do the physics subject test, but only if you can devote five to six hours a day to studying. You have basically six weeks to prepare," my mom dictates. Okay, let's dig a little deeper with that tourné… maybe swap it for a fucking meat cleaver.

     "You have the time, God knows what you do in your room," my dad grumbles. Wow, are you fucking serious? I imagine using a flimsy oyster knife to saw at his throat, repeatedly. One stroke wouldn't be enough. It would probably take about twelve, back and forth, to make a satisfying purchase. 

     "Well?!" They both glare at me. 

     I envision the bloodstained scene–my mom, bleeding out from her legs, all vital arteries there snipped away, and my dad, mutilated beyond recognition, mouth hacked off, chest carved open, fingers severed, bones removed from his body–and my heart rate goes down. Works like a fucking charm every fucking time. 

     I smile sweetly, so sugary I can feel the bile rising in my throat. "I'll have an updated plan by the end of the week, along with the second diagnostic test results." I excuse myself from the table. 

     Seppuku! That's what it's called! 

*inspired by The Dust of 100 Dogs

#

once upon a time, a boy plucked my heart from my chest

he stroked it and smiled at me, caved my breast

in around the empty cavity and wiped away

the anxiety with simple words in honeyed rays

he took my heart away with him, somewhere too far to find

until i could see it no more, left behind

i crumbled inward till no one recognized me

they took away the pieces and buried me

then one day he returned and thought of me, thought to put me back together

rubbed his hands and dug me out, tugged me to him with a tether

he solidified the ashes i had become, fashioned me into a single piece

i opened my eyes and let out a sigh, wondered at his caprice

i asked him for my heart, he told me it was safe

i shook my head, lifted shaking limbs, unsound and chafed

he brought it out to show me, and knives stuck deep into the flesh

the organ blackened, rotting, i could not see i could not hear my nostrils filled

he smiled at the railroad tracks cracking through my face–breaking into bits–

his teeth black and bloodied–

swallowed the heart whole

i screamed and screamed

till he silenced my lips

sucked me in

consumed me

*Scholastic Silver Key for Poetry

At World's End

Watch.

letters fall from the sky, 

                                       b

                                            r

                                                 ok

                                                         e

                                                               n,

                                                                        unthreaded, stringy

words break apart in the middle, incomplete, incoherent, s p l i n t e r e d

Watch.

a gaping

maw.

black, hellish, pitch

consumes, tears, desecrates

strikes a chord of fear

Listen.

thrumming undetected, distinctive, muddled, ringing

roaring, hissing, building, sudden, deafening, inaudible

pounds one too many times

Feel.

reaches inside, mashes spindly fingers through the brain

plunders, assaults, violates

spreads the two hemispheres apart and thrusts

once,

twice.

Not enough–never enough.

feeds on itself, multiplies, never-ending menacing ruin

oozes undetected, visible, unsuspected

Once you submit, you are a slave.

Once you succumb, you are over.

*Scholastic Poetry Silver Key

Today.

She died today. 

There was this girl I 
knew–
not for long, though, for long enough, I don't know–
she had this 
long,
silky, 
dark hair that swished a little when she walked. 

She had pale skin. 
Her eyelashes were long but thin, sweeping thin lines
casting shadows
spidery
delicate and brittle and fragile–like her bones. 

Her fingers tapered and sharpened at the ends,
a marionette's fingers,
perhaps. 

I didn't know her well enough
to know if she was a nice person.

I scratched the surface and saw
an Asian girl, a pretty one too, with sharp
angles and hollowed cheeks.

I looked and when I looked I saw
a girl who listed a bit in the
wind
whose eyes had two eyelids each–like
an alligator–
a film that rarely lifted, like she was in her own
world.

They said that was part of her charm. 
The girl who dreamed too much.

She died today.

It was dark. Too dark. The air was a knife against slivers of exposed skin
peeking over the tops of collars, beneath hats, between layers of
scarf.
All it took was a step in the road, a film over the eyes, 
one wrong move.
On the spot, she died.

And I knew her, but not well enough. 

Saratoga Tales

Ahoy, feast your eyes! Before you is a fantastically brilliant (and absurd) piece written by myself and the lovely Gloria, in the style of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Enjoy.

*UPDATE: This tale has garnered a Silver Key in the Scholastic Art&Writing Contest! Funny story–I contracted the stomach flu the day I submitted it (the day of the deadline LOL) and never sent in the teacher forms and so on, so I thought my entries were never submitted... but hey! Woohoo! 

General Prologue

Here begins the Booke of The Tales of Saratoga: When autumn unfurled upon the sanguine Saratoga folke, and crispy yellow leaves drifted down like flakes of dandruff, and bulbous, warty gourds filled the farmer’s market, the local finishing academy decided to host a school-wide night hike to Bald Mountain. The teachers sought chaperones, and I happened to be in town researching moss growth in Bigge Basin. The Literature teacher, familiar with my trustworthy soul, requested that I supervise the excursion. Thus, I had the profound pleasure of examining each and every one of these unique Saratogans, and I shall begin with the Bizarre Buffoons.

There were two of these mademoiselles, who were quite chatty and exuberant indeed. They were constantly of excellent disposition, as they had large imaginations with which to keep themselves occupied. They were quite literally ‘attached at the (chubby) hip,’ piercing the fresh air with giggly, unintelligible conversation, one having low intonation and the other high pitch. Indeed, they were an indulgent pair when it came to nosh, and kept food diaries to record their gobbling habits. They plowed and chowed through many a food joint, insatiable as they were. The only anguish either had known was the slight emptiness of a gut. Following their food pillaging, they flubbed about on the ground, full to the brim with good grub. The buffoons were known as Edith and Gladys.

Next came three marvelous Scrubs who kept a pointed distance from the bizarre buffoons. These boys were pale as the winter moon from lack of outdoor activity, and very much single. However, they were by no means ‘eligible bachelors,’ for their intellectual ambitions rendered them asexual. They had gloriously sonorous voices, honed by years of speech and debate. One could easily spot the three among the hikers by their drooping gaits. Regarded as surly and aloof, the Scrubs shrouded themselves in misty mystery. They were named Pongo Chen, Pingie Pwu, and Hansel Su.

A flock of Taiwanese mommies, known simply as the Zumba Clan, served as caboose to the procession. There were six of them, all sprightly and spry, full of jiggles and joy. Frequently found baking, quilting, and pestering their posterity, these beloved mothers amused themselves with dainty pastimes. They dressed strangely stylishly and sported swishy bobs, reminiscent of schoolgirl-hood. Each of them had a clueless, uptight husband of the squinty variety. These delightful ladies were, in turn, referred to as “____’s Mama.”

There were several Small Citizens of Saratoga High, fawned over by the entire female population. They were stolid and tranquil folk, unbearably adorable, though they were understandably resentful of their short statures. All of them wished to grow a foot or so taller. Thus, they tended not to enjoy the attention they received from females and attempted to avoid any topic on height, exhibiting notable discomfort whenever complimented for their cuteness. They were called Peter, Paul, and Saul.

A trio of Pudgy Pianists dragged their feet in perfect rhythm, humming Hummel and mewling Mozart, slowing the parade. The more bounteous the bottom, the more dedicated the pianist, after all. At school, they prioritized piano over people, scuttling off to the music building during passing for a couple moments of frantic practice. Stoic, ascetic, and masochistic, they considered themselves true “Exemplars of -ic,” and as a result were subtly snobbish toward their non-musical classmates. I knew them as Nikolai Chowsky, Boris Krushchev, and Yekaterina Yov.

The Alternatives consecrated themselves from the general school population as delegates of ‘different’. They dressed differently, thought differently (à la Apple), behaved differently – they were artists, and they knew it. Indeed, they were every bit as talented as they led people to believe, but their philosophical physiognomies often drove people away (perhaps an intended effect). They called themselves Burning Ermine, Twiggy, and Star Blanket.

Floating along and diffusing Victoria’s Secret body spray were three Fluffy Girls – girlfriend types, one might say. They were always clean and dressed in pastels, very soft and smooth to the touch. They were like docile, content white kittens, basking in boyfriend-bestowed affection. Though they orbited in a beau-centric universe, one could not be vexed by these lovely misses, who were sweet toward all who surrounded them. They were named Milano Cookeigh, Lily Lin, and Mary Sue Muffet.

The History Ballers I save for last, for in history lies the secrets of statecraft. They possessed vast knowledge in many areas – medieval Europe, ancient Rome, Persia, fine arts, East Asia – though their expertise extended beyond history. They dominated Physic, Alchemy, and Abacus by day, and hit the buzzers at night. Despite slight social ineptitude, the Ballers (and other Bowl folke from the realms of Quiz, Science, and Ethics) commanded respect for their tasteful treatment of trivia. They were simply History Ballers, subliminally serious and seriously sublime. And that was that.

On the great night-trek to Bald Mountain, these myriad specimens quibbled and quarreled in earnest. Sometimes, diversity can be a bit of a drawback. I proposed that they tell stories to celebrate their differences and see through one another’s eyes, for once. They went forth with my idea, strangely enough.

Prologue of the Bizarre Buffoons

Edith and Gladys volunteered to go first, bursting to impart the fruits of their identical imaginative trajectory. “We are very mindfully aware of our flaws,” they said knowingly. “Indeed, we feast voraciously on every bit of grub we encounter, and abuse adverbs, but we regret our behavior. We are attempting to control our stomachs, but it is a gradual task, you see.” The History Ballers and fluffy girls smiled amiably at the buffoons and gestured for them to proceed, while the scrubs - wary of their unusual proximity to these odd girls - excused themselves to the restroom. “We tell this story to exacerbate our troubles and remind ourselves to keep on the road to recovery. Let us begin.”

~~~

Here begins the tale of the Bizarre Buffoons: “Partake in the genius of the Bizarre Buffoons (or buffons, like muffins). This is the anthem of us anomalies–the neither/nors, the Bridget Joneses, the ravenous crumb-droppers, and the Prattling Non-Peaceholders. The tragedy begins thus:

One octagonal October day, Maestro Boyt’s cherished orchestra students, Judel Wee and Glodel Bee, decided to go off-campus for lunch. The portly pair burst forth from the rehearsal room (which reeked of sweat and cookie dough) and shuffled into Judel’s polar bear-colored shuttle.

Belting music from Les Mizzles all the way, Judel and Glodel cruised down Saratoga Aditusque toward the esteemed eatery 5Guize. The gluttonous pair were hungry as Hungarian Horntails, and upon entering 5Guize charged straight for the free-peanut barrels (which happened to be in the shape of 3D rectangular prisms). They inhaled piles of perfectly toasted peanuts without shedding the shells, and left a trail of peanut carcasses in their wake. Very cleverly, Judel snitched an extra cardboard boat (also of rectangular prismic form) for future sampling (she was ever so clever, once again).

Fleeing the 5Guize bell-hoppers, Judel and Glodel sought sanctuary in nearby Sprouts Supermarche. The bulk section dazzled them. Glodel, in the manner of Eve to Adam, convinced Judel of the legality of taste-testing (or so she thought). Judel deftly pocketed a peanut butter cup, as manipulated by Glodel. They both misappropriated several multi-colored Alpine mints. Scuttling over to the frozen food aisle, the pair came across antipasti cart. It was chock full of olives, white beans, and marinated mozzarella (called bocconcini), all laid out like jewels on display.

The bocconcini swam in an olive-oil bath, adorned with roasted red peppers and flecks of rich pesto. The charming white globes, so pure and pearlescent, beckoned Glodel and Judel. They could not break away–the lovely aroma of red pepper cornered and caressed them–they simply had to sample–they could not dilly-dally a moment longer!

Without waiting for the mocha mothers and pasty employees to evacuate adjacent aisles, the pair pounced. Swiftly, Judel extracted the pilfered peanut-boats. With a sweep of the tongs, Glodel procured two snack-sized spheres from the vat and deposited them into the cardboard chariot (which, again, happened to be a 3D rectangular prism).

Victoriously, they popped the bocconcini into their mouthies. As their fangs sunk into the soft flesh, they felt... Sparks. Nicholas Sparks. Familiar food-induced tingles, almost romantic in nature, erupted throughout their jiggly bodies. These decadent sensations catalyzed their serious sin: they took three more without a drop of gustatory guilt.

Glodel, referencing the nearby romaine, nudged Judel: ‘Lettuce fly, comrade!’ The thieves extracted yet another three bocconcini for the road and sprung out of Sprouts Supermarche. They tucked themselves into the polar bear-colored shuttle, and (oh what fun!) sped down Saratoga Aditusque, gobbling all the way (ha-ha-ha)!

Alas, Judel’s eyes were not on the road. As she turned into the school’s parking lot, the pair battled piggishly for the final cheese. Judel was just about to pop it into her mouth when Glodel used her stolen tongs to knock it out of her buddy’s flubby grip. Judel, in fierce reflexive reaction, floored the gas pedal and whipped the wheel violently to the left.

The polar bear-colored car careened past the office, soared up the quad steps, and crashed dramatically into the sweaty-smelling rehearsal room. Cinderblock crumbled like cookies. The great Chinese gong rolled out from the rubble and danced like a top on the quad. As its spinning expired with a final crash, the Snack Sneaks breathed their last breath.

A tiny ball of mozzarella, slightly melted, was discovered at the scene.”

~~~

The two buffoons exchanged piteous glances. “Let this be a lesson to you all – do not drive under the influence. Also, dairy has questionable side effects. Above all, control your id! Id temperare.” Their mouths tugged up symmetrically and simultaneously in ponderous humor. “This tale does bear some semblance to reality.”

Finis.

A note to the reader: We (the true writers of this Saratoga Tale) tried to make it as obvious as possible, but just in case, it is important to note that the weirdness and redundancy of the two buffoons’ tale is intentional. The strange sentences are meant to reflect the buffoonery of Edith and Gladys, as they would likely tell their tale in such a way.

Hauntings.

I had a dream last night. I dreamed that the boy I love sat at a piano bench.
Lyrics and notes flowed off long fingers.
But just the fingers of one hand.
I had a dream last night that the other hand rested on a suit pant-clad leg. On top of that hand was another–another's. Smooth, painted purple fingernails adorned the feminine appendages. Curled around his. When I saw her face–it wasn't mine–I woke.

This morning I woke to a sagging face, a sluggish body, a welling despair. To eyelids crusted together by the serums of my body.
This morning I picked away the sleep, rubbing my eyes roughly. And the image of hands intertwined stamped on my brain.
The cavity in my chest pulsed erratically.

This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by the future I'd thought I had.
This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by expectations.

How many times had I heard it? 

You'll get in. You're good enough to get in. No–you better make it in. 

How many times had I heard it?

You'll get in. There is no other option. What does it say about you if you don't–no. There is no room for that possibility. 

Today I was rejected by life. Today I truly wished I didn't have to breathe and consume and think and breathe again and–live. 

I wished I could reject life. 

A curdled brain, an empty cave of a chest, shaking. What use was I? 

And I wished I could have had the dream instead.


Note: After receiving a tentative call from a friend asking if I was okay, I realized I should make clear that this never happened! I didn't have the dream and I haven't been rejected from college (...yet?). Heh. 

The Thing.

            “What’s in a name? For, a rose by any other name smells just as sweet” (Shakespeare).

            How sentimental. But is this, one of the most well known lines from Shakespeare’s tragedy Romeo and Juliet, accurate? If, in fact, any other name would suffice just as well, let’s try it another way, shall we?

            What’s in a thing? For, a thing by any other thing would smell just as sweet.

            What does that even mean? We took away every specificity there was in that line and sloppily slapped in possibly one of the laziest words ever, as fillers for the gaps–basically for the purpose of sapping away commitment.

            “Thing.” Ah, what a creation of a word. What a euphemism, what a cop-out! We say that we like “things”. We do “things”. We possess “things”. We engage in “things”. Sometimes, we even call ourselves “things”. So what are these things?

            My friend always derisively sneers out the word that is so often used to dub high school relationships to express her malcontent and contempt for the thoroughly wimpy descriptor. Seriously, what’s in a thing? For, a “thing” by any other name would in fact be preferable.

            The word is so overused that the diction is…typical. That behavior, that shying away from specificity, is absolutely run-of-the-mill nowadays. For, our inability to articulate delves deeper to our mental and emotional selves.

            Think of 500 Days of Summer. Remember that girl no audience member really likes? She never wanted to put a name to her relationship with Tom Hansen; she called it “labeling”. By doing so, though, she made basically the whole…thing… well, just that: a thing. It was a facsimile of a sham, nebulous and confusing and frustrating to everyone involved (except maybe her). She showcased some serious commitment issues while in that scam of a relationship (and then goes on to actually get married to different guy!). Remember the frustration we all felt toward her lackeying, her vacillating? 

            The word “thing” is a safety blanket. We hide behind it, throwing it in front of us hastily like Harry Potter’s Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder to try and disguise our indecision. The word is intentionally vague, and even complacent. It allows us to dodge making a real commitment and putting any actual meaning into our activities, our persons, our relationships–whatever we are replacing with the word–like the girl from 500 Days of Summer.

            I used to throw the word around equally casually, even in my writing; it was not until I began working on college essays that I recognized the intolerably cloudy and blank nature of the word. In college essays, one must be specific and clear. No “things” could possibly be allowed. Despite the fact that I knew my potential major and what I wanted to do following undergraduate education, I found myself still clinging to this safety blanket, ducking behind maybe-sos and half-baked back-up plans. But, there comes a time when we must grow up and define ourselves, the same way growing children must discard their blankies or teddies or thumb-sucking habits.

            After all, could we possibly be content to say that something cannot be known, and thus, just let it be? Say that we can’t make up our minds, and so that’s that, nothing else to it? Can we leave our decisions ambiguous and dwell contentedly in our muffled, nebulous cocoons? In Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, the main character, Billy Pilgrim, lives in a self-induced state of complacency and ignorance. His wife dies? “So it goes.” Billy passes by a homeless man frozen to death? “So it goes.” He cannot expend additional effort trying to define his feelings, trying to feel in the first place, painful it would be, and so he stops and leaves it at “So it goes” (Vonnegut). He is content to let these occurrences pass him by, to sit on the sidelines. He never seeks; he merely watches and shrugs in blasé abandonment.

            Bertrand Russell discussed a similar type of person with the “practical man” in a chapter entitled “The Value of Philosophy” from his book The Problems of Philosophy; the practical man is one who does not seek to expand his mind through the pondering of apparently impossible universal questions (of appearance and reality, infinity, the existence of God), simply because the questions appear impossible. The effort is not worth expending because nothing definite would be gained, such a person might claim. He/she completely disregards the fact that such endeavors are embarked upon so we can strive for better and expand our minds–explore the “Not-Self” (Russell).

            We must attempt to know ourselves, then set out on forays toward the unknown, and, above all, never stop seeking.

            The unformed sludge that happens to be liquid concrete is unstable and often unidentifiable. It is quite unpleasant to passersby, being the oozing mire that it is. Fully formed, though, concrete is the foundation of American roads and gives us a level surface on which to keep moving smoothly forward without stumbling.

            We must keep our words, and lives, concrete.

P.S. I want to write a "What am I thankful for" post, but I haven't had the time! Hopefully, that will be up soon. Also, I am quite the hypocrite because I say "thing" all the time. :(