Just a Story

It's 9:00 a.m. I wake up as the tick-tick-tick of the moth on my ceiling light disturbs my deepest dreams. There's a smell of old food emanating from the plate peeking from underneath my bed. Fuck it. The sun's evil children creep through my window, blinding my eyes and making my blinds beg to be closed. I don't seem to have any pants on, but that's how I roll. The bed below me is my closest friend until my feet make love to my shag carpet. Psht, shag. So outdated.

It's 9:12 a.m. I enter my kitchen, welcomed by the silence and the smell of fresh coffee that I didn't make. To be honest, I really don't know who did. Whatever. After a quick breakfast and a cup of weak java, I head for the bathroom. I take a shower, with soap, and dry off with the same towel I haven't washed in at least a week. Let the mediocrity begin.

It's 10:03 a.m. The news is depressing as usual: someone died in a car accident, there was a horrific fire on Main Street, the economy still sucks and Miss America has a sex tape. The soaps that proceed this mess are typical as well: "Marissa, your father was found....alive." The shows vomit cliché. With a point and a click, I'm back to square one.

It's 11:07 a.m. I open my front door to tease myself with a breeze, hoping my body will step foot across the threshold; it won't. Sunuva bitch. For quite a length of time, I sit in my chair, staring out the window at the world around me. Between the little girl on her bike equipped with training wheels and that forty-something-year old woman jogging with her dog, my life inside seems to be a little more exciting. At least there's air conditioning.

It's 12:34 p.m. The damn air conditioner broke and I'm sweating my ass off. The high-noon sun, being the bastard that he is, cooks my house from the outside in. I find a fan in my utility closet, dusty with age. This will have to do for now.

It's 1:01 p.m. I decided to put the fan in my room and just "chill" in there. Judging by how the rest of the day has gone, I'm due for a nap. I rest my head on the cold side of the pillow, drape the mink blanket over one of my legs and drift into sleep. I'm sure it will be a quick nap. An hour, two tops.

It's 9:00 a.m. Good morning.

The Meteor of the Land

They are preserved in mud,
Like modern fossils.
Human dinosaurs left to be
Uncovered.
Poor beings, their lungs
Filled with dirt. Dirt,
Which is so completely
Associated with the lowest of
Soceity's creatures. To have that
In their lungs, like they have
Deliberately been shunned by
Higher deities.
How fitting, then, that it take
Seven days to unearth what is
No longer of this earth.
Will their bones be reassembled?
Placed in museums like their
Time-frozen ancestors.
Their unfortunate predicament
Recreated for tourists of
All ages to enjoy.
Just the small price of admission
To see children who
Cannot cast their earthen shoes.
Women who can now only
Birth a child of sod -
No breath needed to live,
Only fertilizer and sunlight.
For the price of admission,
The masses can see how
The land fought back.

shelter.seek

You come to me
And wait for a hand.
Reaching out,
We walk.
Endlessly
We walk
Out and about
And wait for a hand
To come and lead.

To the dark clouds,
A new path we made.
Sight behold
The rain.
Heavily
The rain
Falls so cold
On the path we made
That we shall follow.

Unbearable.
The rain soon becomes
So frigid,
So sore;
Consequently,
So sore.
I'll admit
The rain soon becomes
Quite terrible.

Seek the place.
No one beside us,
In a hole
To hide
So cowardly,
To hide
All alone.
No one besides us,
I see your face.

Embrace me.
The rain is long gone.
May be safe
To leave.
So swiftly
To leave,
You hesitate.
The rain is long gone;
Let us leave.

The choice to stay,
We are again whole.
Forever
We rest.
Simultaneously
We rest
Together.
We are again whole,
And whole we remain.

Creativity in a nutshell

What is creativity but tiny little specs, randomly organized in such a thoughtful manner that one must take aback and say,” that looks pretty neat”. Of course such beauty rarely ever comes across the page as writers’ and their keyboards cry out to the gods for some chance of immortality through the assembly of letters. Mr. editor, looking over the paper, is this pretty enough for you or would you rather we take little excursions through conformity and proper form in the hopes to fit the template. Creativity, it comes in the form of poison and ambrosia mixed with a tiny hint of hope all encompassed in one word: possibility.

- Ray

Poem dedicated to Haiti~Caldwell Prize winner

Poem4

You could not find Haiti on a map before,

You still can not find it, the quake took it out.

I looked for it and could not see it.

We could not even spell it correctly,

Or even knew if it had its own language or not.

We never knew what to call them, but Haitians it is for now.

I found America though.

It invaded the map; standing out like the sun

Stands out from the other stars.

Haiti must be Pluto then.

Something seems odd when we have one less planet.