What A Beautiful Day


"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love," - Stendhal (1783 - 1842, France).

Even though I see it rain, I'm in love.

Even though you see it rain, you have a noose around your neck.
There's no way someone would want to lose their life on such a magnificent day I tell you.
Your hair is drenched from root to tip and dark spots are beginning to consume my clothes.
Zetsubou, zetsubou, zetsubou.
Magnificent day, huh? You chuckle to yourself (or perhaps someone else entirely?).
Didn't you hear the weather man? Rain for the next week, with temperatures below freezing.
The air embraces my body in a close hug, but it couldn't compare to yours.
The roads and allies were empty, even the wild souls hid in their sanctuaries.
You wait for an answer (or perhaps a prayer?).
I look up into the empty vacuum above, crying itself pure on everything below.

Fuck the weather man, it's a great day.

For Aaron

I've always loved carnivals, theme parks and such. I loved the bright colors, the constant background laughing. The food, the candy - the happy that radiated all over. I loved it all. Everytime I go, sometime during the day or night I'd have to just sit and watch people take in the lighthearted mood.

To see the exhilarated faces as they stumbled off of the rides and their stammering voices as they attempt to tell their side of how entertained they were.

But always, always. I'd see someone, a child, and sometimes even an adult, cry out to a relative, a friend or the ride's operator: Stop! I want to get off!
They would have these widened eyes and their brows would be pinched together. Their mouth opened in their frightened state as they would plea for it to be over.

Sometimes I'd see their parents or friend run up to the worker. Please, they'd say, Please stop it. Then the worker would shake their head, I can't stop it for everyone just because of that one person. They'll be ok.

The victim would then either grow silent and numb-like, or tears would gush down their face. And afterwards, they'd stumble from their seat and cry into a shoulder.

I would sit there and watch them for a few seconds before turning to a more optimistic scene and lick my ice cream. Too bad, I'd think to myself. If we really could end things whenever we were scared, I'd be telling you:

Stop the world, I want to get off.

Write your own philosophical essay based on Thoreau's writing style in "Where I Lived, and What I Lived For"

I went to the roof because I wished to live with the knowledge that I'm able to go anywhere or do anything if I so desired and have the legs to get me there or the brain to think it, to face only what confronts me, and see if I can find the ones that hide, and not, as I stalk them, to discover that the most prominent was attatched to the back of my head. I did not yearn to live what life did not give me, it is not my part to live it; nor did I long to snatch any extra years from its pockets, unless the significance of breathing stolen air was compulsory. I wanted to experience personally and see beyond the horizon without losing my side of the skyline, to demand from life the most I am to receive, and condemn it if presented with a secondhand, and, if it displays a sense of generosity, to withdraw to my place with murmurs of gratitude, careful not to disturb any turning hourglass.

Every day I catch the same faces and put up my own like a magician; though some stories do not follow how it is written; like a pebble dropped in water, it is changed but still the same. Like this, we forget who we really are and following a series of I wonder and I would like to be, only finally jumping in the wrong direction, to realize we are not in the right place. The correct lives we did not live returns to its birthplace and we are left staring into the unfamiliar eyes we, in one moment, caught sight of and tried to duplicate into our own. Life first cracks then crumbles, and later wrecked, to be left with shards waiting to be recycled.

To lavish a day, better yet, a week, and more a year or a lifetime as purposefully as clouds, and moving in the direction to where they are meant to be, with much assistance from the breath of invisible forces, to flow so easily. Why fret over the future when an empty stomach beckons for your attention at the now? If a clock ticks, let it tick until time runs out, or much sooner its batteries. If the lights go out, why should we sleep? Let us inhale what is put before us and do with it what we can until we can do no more, but reach for what our hands and fingers are allowed to grasp, and to only miss by a skim will result in nothing and undertake the task at a later day. Life is limited but only to the amount we allow. I consume color with my mouth and taste with my eyes, and when I sleep I find myself back stage and looking from behind those black, black curtains of eyelids, to uncover a scar to another world, and not, when I realize, that I am only in a dream, do what reality prevents. The imagination has always been consistent, more so than material things, and only distinguishable from truth when we challenge it. My intuition tells me that this is where I am, and if I really are rotting alive, let us be the witness of my emotional health, for I think that life permits me only to be me, and you as you are; no other.


I Pinky Promise


It is 11:11 and I have a sense of urgency.

I know you're probably asleep at this time, stolen with a chain on your trust.
I don't understand how such fabrications can lure you so easily, but they got me.
Got me - questioning you.
You don't understand how such honesty can trick me so easily, but they got you.
Got you - questioning me.
I always took the easy way and sat around, but you threatened to take my legs if I didn't follow and my heart if I didn't believe. But I've always had to look up to see you.
They can't take us together, because we'll be too much. So they catch us separately and hang us five feet from the ground. I'm already dead, but they don't know that that doesn't stop you because you're taller than that.

And I pinky promise: I'll kidnap you from this heaven and show you the world I hold in my hands, and together, we'll hide all the things we adore. Because we don't care anymore and we'll run away with happy, uneven steps.

My bed is wicked and tempts me with you.
Five hours. Five hours is all I get.

Now is the time to say good-bye.

It is 11:12 and I have a sense of urgency.


Every Other Line


Here is a wanted ad. Posted on my skin.

Looking for anyone who doesn't mind
cleaning the house, surrounding area and
spending their day with a simplistic
notion without having inclinations like a
needy girl. Previous experience is
insisted however prior education is
not needed to apply. Needs to be patient
when concerning duties and against liberal ideas
and understanding with a complex perception. Friendship
shouldn't be considered and cooperation with other staff
is not required but would be nice. Cloud inspections and
gardening is to be executed in the mornings and children
story telling will be daily. Needs to know how
to act professional with guests and if situation requires
to laugh and always have open arms.
Breaks will take place at noon and 6 sharp for thirty minutes.
Having a degree in being a superhero will
simply be mocked and turned away but acute cooking skills will
instantly get you the job.
For more information &
If interested contact me at: My heart

This assignment was to write a short story in the style of  Brian Andreas.

I'm glad I'm not a spider, she said, because I don't think I'd be patient enough to wait for my food.

What do I have to do? I said & he said, When it turns dark and the stars are out, count them all and tell me in the morning & I said, What if I lose count? & he said, Wait until night and do it again.

When will you stop sleeping with the lights on? she said & I said, When the monsters under my bed tell me they're moving.

Here is a frog who sings when it rains because that is when his voice is appreciated by an audience of none.

finally has realized that she can't find a lost place with a map

Why are the jokers taken out of a lot of card games? he said & I said, because the other cards are afraid they'll win everytime.


Sentence Beginnings


"It is not easy to cut through a human head with a hacksaw." from Travels by Michael Crichton.

Here I go. . .

It is not easy to cut through a human head with a hacksaw. In fact, using a semiautomatic would probably be more effective if one was hoping for a simpler method of disposing something or someone - as my accomplice, J, and I were doing one chilly October night. However, we were ill prepared and didn't have access to a hacksaw, much less a gun. Instead, my tools for that particular night consisted of a knife, an old sack, one rust caked shovel and -of course- the victim.

The night was strangely clear and the moon a slit in the stretching black above our heads. It was a night filled with unspoken mischief and actions motivated by adrenaline. Dim streetlights lined the road with their glowing hope for those afraid of the dark and a calm blanket had been extended over the neighborhood. Luckily, both J and I had outgrown our childish fears and were unbothered as we set out on our engagement.

J's eyes were craters on her face's shadow as she looked up at me in alarm. Flaring lights of red and blue colors moved in patterns across our thin frames bent over a half dug hole. They were quickly joined by the more common beams of golden flashlights and husky figures of hesitant men in blue. I cursed quietly under my breath as J and I faced the authorities through squinted eyes. Somebody had caught sight of us as we dragged the bulky bag down the boulevard though we kept to the darker spaces. This was unexpected and our plan was cut short as they took us in.

Earlier that night I had given my best friend an encouraging smile. It wasn't a daily thing for us to commit such a deed and our doubts needed to be subsided. She had scouted out the arranged area like planned and I had our subject. In a silence where an ant’s steps could be heard, we set to work. I heaved my collection in front of us and we instantly brought our knives down, penetrating the skin into flesh. Fluid stained our shaking hands as we tossed handfuls of the mutilated pieces into the sack, tying the opening off nicely.

We sat in another uncomfortable silence as the policeman drove without a word. A chuckle broke between my lips, growing in volume, as I contemplated over the night’s events. J’s snickering laugh soon mingled with mine. It could have been regarded as insanity from us both. The police didn’t mirror our amusement as they faced us from across the table, the evidence against our crime set between us. Dark stains where the fabric had absorbed the oozing liquid could be more clearly discerned in the lit room.

In approximately two hours later we were released from the police station. They didn’t appreciate our humor when we told them “Happy Halloween” after the chunks of an assortment of fresh fruit was found in the bag.


Remember That Day?


You've always been the quiet kid haven't you? Reluctant to participate in group activities or go where there was bound to be a lot of people. Awfully shy, weren't you...?

I remember a few years ago when I saw you for the first time. That summer we moved here. I was in the passenger seat when we drove into the drive-way of our new house. I refused to call it a home, all it was was an empty shell to live in. The rain had just passed and the ground was still damp. You were standing outside the house next door, staring up into the sky as if it was the first time you've ever saw such a thing. Your hair was wet and your suit soaked through. You must've been standing there a long time. Do you know what I remember most about that picture? It was the way your mouth formed silent words in that stillness. I wonder what you had said.

The next time I saw you was on the second day of school. I had missed the day before because I got my days mixed up. You were sitting in the back, a little apart from the others. All the seats around you were taken so I sat near the door. Immediately the friendlier students gathered around to introduce themselves and ask about me. I glanced in your direction to catch you looking up at me from your desk. We didn't say anything after class. I didn't see you the rest of the day.

On the third week of school you came in late to first period. By then the whole "new kid" excitement had settled and the fake-friends that just wanted to get the gossip were uninterested in me, and the others came to conclusion I was a bit too strange to befriend. You handed the tardy slip in and wordlessly took the empty seat next to me. You smelled of smoke. I was unsure if someone in your family smoked, or if you did. After class, I gave you a jolly rancher. That was the only time I saw you smile for the rest of that semester.

The next time I saw you smile was the fourth day of spring break. We were close then. You were a time bomb and I was a small girl with a knife in each hand. I bet I could fit everything you've said since the first day in less than two pages. We spent that whole day laying in an empty park looking at the sky. You still look at the vast space in awe - just like that day. That day, you explain, when your mother passed away. Your father had left and you live with your uncle, but they were a struggling species. You ask why I became your friend. Simple, I tell you. You're real. You scoffed softly at me and turned away, but I still saw it.

The school year was over and the halls were drowned in "good-byes" and "I'll miss yous". Some of my less close friends came by my locker to give me a hug and promise to hangout when they came back from vacation. "Have a great summer" I tell them. I wouldn't be around when they came back though. You knew this. I let my phone ring for the fifth time before I picked up. You tell me to come outside. I met you in front of my house and we walked to the park together. Shy? you repeat. No, I'm not shy. Others just aren't interested enough to get to know me you clarify. The sky was dark and sprinkled with tiny worlds. It was strange. I wasn't scared when you held the gun to my forehead. You told me that night what you said that day I moved in. You had begged The Lord to send you someone, anyone.
We stood there for a while. Just you and me.

You should smile more often - happy looks good on you.

The next day, the movers came to pack up our final things. As the car passed by the park, I could see where we stood the night before. It was stained with your life. A few feet to the right where you were looking at the sky. Only difference was, the awe was gone, it was replaced by a curve of your mouth.


... - --- .--.


Let's talk in secret -(stop)- I'll leave you a note under the desk in the back corner, don't forget to check when you can -(stop)-

Do you have anything to tell me -(stop)- You looked kinda desperate the other day we met up behind that warehouse -(stop)- Did something happen or were you just over reacting again -(stop)- Like that time you forgot about me -(stop)- But it's ok, it's only me anyways -(stop)- No big deal -(stop)-

You want to know something confidential -(stop)- That boy over there fucked your ex boyfriend's girl the other day -(stop)- Let's all have secrets -(stop)- They're fun to share -(stop)- You're so nosy, it's true -(stop)- You can't help but eavesdrop if your ears hear something juicy - your devil horns are peeking -(stop)- It's just so hard to resist you tell me -(stop)- I understand -(stop)-

I see you after class hiding behind corners and lingering at the water fountain to listen to a girl fulminate about how her mother wouldn't buy her a car and how her friend down the street has three -(stop)- Did you ever wonder that it was because her mother, even with 3 jobs to keep her failing family from starving, just doesn't make enough to provide her princess with one -(stop)- And that little boy who sits in the back -(stop)- It's not that rumor about him being emo and a cutter -(stop)- His dad actually died from a brain tumor last week -(stop)- He's afraid he'll shatter into fragments of what's left if people harass him anymore -(stop)- Did someone whisper that into your ear too -(stop)- Or did what that girl who just passed you that note write to you about how Mark from your physics class just got whatever shit he had left from being abused from home beat out of him a few minutes ago in the cafeteria -(stop)-

Did you read that note I left you yet-(stop)-
Go read it -(stop)- It says:
You just need to -(stop)-

If I spoke to you, would you know who I am?

I seem to know all the twins at my school. I don't know how it happens.
But today, there was a pep rally for the football and volley ball game. I was to meet up with some friends to find a seat together.
Through the cracks between moving bodies, I see him. I wave and make my way over
before giving him a hug. Right when I hugged him, I realized something was wrong.
It wasn't him. It was his twin. I back up immediately and tell him needlessly, "You're not him."

It's strange just knowing one and not the other. In the other cases, I meet both at the same time and from seeing them together am able to tell them apart. However, I only new A. His brother, L, was a stranger to me, yet he was A - physically at least.

He talks to me. His manner of talking is unlike the way A speaks, and, honestly, I felt a bit scared. My mind kept thinking it was A, but he was so unfamiliar. He was a complete stranger.


Be careful. Who you see is not who you think. They're completely opposites, actually. Didn't you know? Those girls at school, who hide behind layers of make-up. That's not really them. I bet they even have a fake laugh and breathe like someone else. Those everyday faces you see? It's not real. At least an eyelash, or a corner of the lip is a clone. Nobody is brave enough to show themselves.

And yes, I see you. In the halls and sometimes outside of school. I know how you really were. Before society got to you. Before you darkened your eyes and fabricated that robot behind your face. I knew you years ago. I know what you love, what you hate. What makes you laugh or causes your mouth to curve in your awkward thinking.

Do you know what I know?

I know you see me looking at you and what's going through my mind. You know me, too. We both conceal ourselves with our own home-made masks.

We know that if we expose too much that we'll get devoured by the judges chained to our tongue. That's too bad. I would've liked to see how you used to be like at least one more time.

So stop pretending like you are.

It's our faults that create a big ass chunk of who we are. It defines me as me and you as you.
I'm a small girl living in a small world within a bigger one. I like to people watch. Nice to meet you.
I like to imagine, how about you? Bright colors mesmerize me like little kids to a pedophile. Sometimes, whenever we sit together, I can see strange things. It plays with my mind, but it makes my life worthwhile. Hate droops over shoulders and love hides in pants.

Some people wear their heart on their sleeves. I hang mine from my hips. If you're willing to come down to my level, you'll see it. I like to think of you as the most significant part in a painting, normally. Practically, there shouldn't even be a signature on my body. I'm not made by the crowd.
In fact- I'll be the sex slave of whatever man manages to put a ring on my finger.

And honestly?
Scars are just tattoos with better stories.


"Me up at does"


Me up at does

out of the floor
quietly Stare

a poisoned mouse

still who alive

is asking What
have i done that

You wouldn't have

-E. E. Cummings
Please, I beg you.
Tell me what have I done?




A dedication to Kim.
You are not alone.
This is for the ones who never knew.
You- I'm talking to you.
The sad figure crying in the corner:

It hurts, doesn't it? When you fell.
Scratched a knee or two.
It hurts, huh? When you walked in.
Saw your lover cheating.
It hurts, I know. When you come back to an empty house.
The family broken apart.
It hurts, its ok. When you're the only one.
Rejected by even the outcasts.
It hurts, don't worry. When you're counting the steps they take away.
Abandoned so easily.
It hurts, I understand. When you pull out an empty wallet.
With an even emptier stomach.
It hurts, a little too much. When you get a phone call.
To find out your mother has been murdered when you were at school.
It hurts, but it's fine. When you wake up the next morning.
Knowing you survived another day in your life nobody else can.
To those that think their life is the worst. Has reached the bottom of the pit fall.
That there is no way back up out of the dark. There is always someone on the next level of hell.
You don't know. They don't let people like you know. Because they're stronger than that.
Fuck you.

I wish I could be a princess or fairy. Just like that little girl.
To be magical and beautiful.

I'm not sure what life is anymore. It's when an organism has all the functions and organs that gives it the ability to breathe.

Of course.

It's not that simple. I think my life is wonderful. I let myself believe I am happy.
Because I am. But there is something missing.
I don't know what it is.
But I am living.
School is starting soon.
I have friends, family, a cat.
Just today, my friend gave me a brain cell.
What more could I ask for?

I want it though.
Whatever it is.
I want it.

If you have it, please.
Please, just offer it to me,
and I'll refuse.


This is their night


Their night to show everybody what they got. To prove that they are "it" material. This is their time to express themselves without judgement, and wear things unforgivable in daylight. The darkness causes everything to look more dramatic. The lights from the shops only help the glimmer of jewelry and metal shine brighter. Hordes of people gather to this place. This place where they can be whoever they want. This is where anywhere you step is the street-platform to a 5-second glamorous competition as their circle lens-ed eyes gaze over your chosen piece of clothing.

They come in the form of fake eyelashes and make up that take no less than 15 minutes to prepare. In colorful mini skirts and strapless tops. Tiny shorts expose their silk-like legs. Smooth and beautiful. Rings and bracelets flash at every movement. Glamorous girls holding advertisement signs wear scanty clothes to draw in customers. Young boys offer charming smiles to passers and point them in the direction of their selling goods. They beckon and call to you. You would want to come nearer, to examine their flawless character. Their hair is how they expected and want. No frizz, but perfectly held in place with Gatsby hair rubber. Angel-like curls aren't effected by the natural humidity, and heat radiating from crowded bodies. Their purses and bags are attractive and lead the eye.

That is how they pull in looks.

That is how they are beautiful.

And sometimes...
every once in a while,
that is how I wish I could be.


All the, small things


The desk is a mess. But an organized mess. Similar things are put together, the expensive things away from the edge - such as my camera- in case it might fall. My objects are laid neatly and, in the most part, spaced. My make up. Hair ties. Phone, tennis racquet. Snacks near the bed with my book, and a bag of candy. I know where my things are, despite the clutter. Because they're mine.

The world is a mess. One nobody can organize, except God. But He hasn't organized it. So it shall stay screwed up. Similar people attract each other. I see it everyday. Perhaps because of their background? Their ethnicity. Their style or preferences. They recognize these signs in others and feel more secure approaching them instead. They draw one another to each other. The more wealthier people tend to stay away from the ghettos. They prefer to surround themselves in luxuries where they think is safer. But nobody's safe, especially not from themselves. I don't know where anything is. None of these things are mine, but I am a part of this world.

But I don't have to be. I don't have to be. I don't. I can make my own world. However reality is whats still there even after I've stopped believing. Maybe if I leave it alone, it wouldn't get fucked up even more. I have my magazine to keep myself entertained and cranberry juice for the taste. Today I am content.

I check the number. It was the correct one, so I sit. Beside me, a young man is already in his seat. He doesn't wear the army uniform, however his camo backpack and shaved head gives me clues. I settle myself in, and grab a magazine.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

We both turn away, him to the window and me to the shiny pages. I glance over at his ipod. A Cinderella Story is playing. Interesting choice for a man who looks how he does. He has three tattoos. A cross in a circle with star-like designs on one arm. Chinese symbols that say something along the lines of 'I fear no more' on the other arm. And a design I didn't quite get a good look at on his forearm.

I hate flying, he says.

Why? I reply.

He says nothing for a moment. Then, I'd rather be on the ground.

He tells me about himself.

It took him 5 1/2 years to graduate highschool because he dropped out and was caught up in drugs. He is the tank gun loader and he's from Minnesota. He has a picture of a half naked girl on his phone.

The plane lands and we get off.

I tell him bye.

I don't even know his name.