“This One Thing I Know…”

Pursuit and apathy have started to blend

I’ve never seen a beginning look so much like an end

This one thing I know:

It’s not in them that I’ll find it

It’s a shame for this long I’ve been so misguided

Suggested by: C. Dos Santos

“Whimsical”

Twilight nears / Lake swans float away / Whimsical

Suggested: O. Joan

“Tinkle”

“Who wears a unitard to a metal show?” Thrasher Anne quizzed Brain Laundry about his unusual choice of outfit. They were anxiously waiting in line to enter The Opera House, as the most epic death metal line up of bands flashed on the neon sign above the theatre. They made it past the search but no one suspected that underneath his baggy sweater and distressed jeans was, in fact, a bright orange unitard. “Seriously, dude. Why the unitard?” Thrasher Anne would not let anything distract her from finding out why, on that frosty November day, Brain Laundry chose to wear a spandex unitard. “It keeps me toasty,” he said, without a trace of shame upon his bearded face. “Okay dude,” said Thrasher Anne, “Suit yourself. But if you have to tinkle, you’re gonna regret it.”

Suggested by: B. Landry

“Never Again Will I…”

My heart’s been pounding at the walls of my rib cage and it’s starting to bruise. Twenty seven years and eight months of this. Keep counting. Sometimes I inhale to inflate those air pillows in my chest, as if it’s going to pad my ribs and keep my heart from bursting out. Taking on the weight of things it can’t handle; it’s a power lifter. But the mind has a battle of its own. There’s the brain: all pink, heavy and tangled with everything I’ve ever thought, felt, dreamt, tasted, smelled, touched, imagined, hoped, wondered, questioned, doubted, feared. It’s inside this smooth round shell that’s deceiving ’cause it’s actually tougher than anything. It’s the control centre, dictating the rest of me, because it claims to know. What purpose is a strong heart, if the weight of a mind prevails? Believing they lead but one following the other, like two friends without a will of their own. Never again will I expend these soldiers on souls who bring empty promises and good intentions that cannot follow through.

Suggested by: R. Dos Santos

“Who”

Adia’s hands were covered in bubbles. She swished her hands in the soapy water, reaching for a spoon somewhere at the bottom of the warm suds. She gazed and squinted as she observed the hazy summer afternoon out the window in front of her. The wind had gone elsewhere, and left the world outside in a hot, motionless state. The window frame’s view reminded her of the painting hanging in the bathroom–a thorny rose bush in a desert. “Ouch!” She yelled, as a knife at the bottom of the sink stabbed her palm. Ejecting her hand from the water she thumbed the area to check for blood. There was none. A knock on the door was the next interruption, causing a toothy smile to flash across her face. Wiping her hands in a towel she rushed over expectantly, heart pounding, and she could feel warmth rising to her cheeks as she grinned. She twisted the doorknob, and swung open the door, arms prepared to embrace. But the person she saw was not whom she expected. Her face flushed, her crescent smile became a hard line, and her hands suddenly turned ice cold. “…Who are you?”

 

Suggested by: P. Babs

“What”

A man stands at a bus stop with his umbrella flipped out above his head.

He doesn’t attempt to adjust it, despite the rain pouring in and spraying around him.

Cars drive by and splash his corduroy pants, soaking them up to his knees.

He doesn’t flinch.

After eight peculiar minutes the bus arrives, and as he walks on he discards the umbrella in the trash bin.

The driver looks at him, her right eyebrow twisted upward, “Sir, are you alright?”

The man replies, “My life’s always been a piece of cake. For once I wanted to know what it felt like to be stuck in a rut and care too little to do anything about it.”

Suggestion by: D. Hibbard