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Literature Text
I wished a junior postman a nice day -
"Just put them down there, " I said to him as he staggered over my porch with two parcels and something invertebrate wrapped in grey plastic, whilst from my mouth I projected the ugly sycophancy of a convent girl.
And then - "Have a nice day," I said.
He said something back - a stout sound, just enough of a noise to qualify as a syllable. It did not have a smooth ending: it was not gratitude. As he tossed it to me, he lumbered away and did not slide the door back.
Why did he run from me? Did he sense the two goldfish I haven't been bothered to name, swimming around with no past and no future? Was he worried I'd do the same to him by taking away his reflective jacket and identity card? Maybe it was the smell of my curls that got stuck in his throat: mousse and broken comb teeth. Maybe he heard my brain cluck over him like an anxious lovebird and my overcomplicated mechanics, with the lost instruction manual, scared him. Maybe he didn't pass Physics at school.
Perhaps I am too much the colour of coffee and I remind him of croaking trees and wet roads; perhaps I look like a suicide case.
"Just put them down there, " I said to him as he staggered over my porch with two parcels and something invertebrate wrapped in grey plastic, whilst from my mouth I projected the ugly sycophancy of a convent girl.
And then - "Have a nice day," I said.
He said something back - a stout sound, just enough of a noise to qualify as a syllable. It did not have a smooth ending: it was not gratitude. As he tossed it to me, he lumbered away and did not slide the door back.
Why did he run from me? Did he sense the two goldfish I haven't been bothered to name, swimming around with no past and no future? Was he worried I'd do the same to him by taking away his reflective jacket and identity card? Maybe it was the smell of my curls that got stuck in his throat: mousse and broken comb teeth. Maybe he heard my brain cluck over him like an anxious lovebird and my overcomplicated mechanics, with the lost instruction manual, scared him. Maybe he didn't pass Physics at school.
Perhaps I am too much the colour of coffee and I remind him of croaking trees and wet roads; perhaps I look like a suicide case.
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
singles.
Cooper is twelve years old and a treasure in his tennis whites, and I am unremarkable, eleven, blurred at the edges like some uncertain shoreline. He only speaks to me because he sees Coach Drown's hands linger too long on my hips when he's teaching me topspins. We're pairing up, Cooper declares, claiming me from across the court with the wide end of his racquet. He spends the rest of practice serving straight down the line, aiming to concuss. Cooper Corentin plays tennis like we're in trenches. Come on, kid, fight back, he says. If I were a fucking truck, would you just stand
Literature
Older
Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.
I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.
I miss the certainty of need.
I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
good
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.
I have my way with w
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- my main concern is that this is too short and consequently underdeveloped; thoughts on this would be appreciated. Also, does the speaker come across as just anxious and socially-inept, or completely psychotic? I was going for the former but may have overdone it.
If you're here from
- my main concern is that this is too short and consequently underdeveloped; thoughts on this would be appreciated. Also, does the speaker come across as just anxious and socially-inept, or completely psychotic? I was going for the former but may have overdone it. © 2010 - 2024 SymphonyInWilde
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I'll definitely vote with the herd and say that I read 'socially inept'.
It's funny how we tend to make big deals of nothings, and turn non-events into crises. Something as trivial as someone not-saying-hello-properly can make us ask all sorts of funny questions, if we're in the right mood.
So it's certainly the train-of-thought of a paranoid and insecure mind. Or maybe just a normal mind in an insecure mood.
The last line has a certain ring to it though, doesn't it? Why would she think she looked liked a suicide case, unless she'd been thinking of suicide? The thought does rather turn the whole thing upside-down.
It's funny how we tend to make big deals of nothings, and turn non-events into crises. Something as trivial as someone not-saying-hello-properly can make us ask all sorts of funny questions, if we're in the right mood.
So it's certainly the train-of-thought of a paranoid and insecure mind. Or maybe just a normal mind in an insecure mood.
The last line has a certain ring to it though, doesn't it? Why would she think she looked liked a suicide case, unless she'd been thinking of suicide? The thought does rather turn the whole thing upside-down.