weirdnesprevails

BUS 57 TO CEDARWOOD Why Today Amanda woke up as the bus plunged down the steep cliff. Around her small things flew, floating in the falling vehicle. Time began to slow down. With it, everything around her blurred; all ambient sounds became a slow stream of incoherent waves. Today, of all days? Why did it have to be today? she thought. Some moments later, time came to a full stop. Silence and blurriness reigned. The bus driver was nowhere to be seen, and so were the other passengers. Except one: a teenager seated in the very back row. He wore a hood so she couldn't see his face. In his hand he held a small metallic thing that shone

We all know the advantages of being a Bookworm – the richness of imaginative experience (a.k.a. day-dreams), the broadening of horizons (a.k.a. someone else's ideas), the constant friend always by your side (a.k.a. book) and vast built-up reserves of general knowledge (a.k.a. trivia). But who talks about the disadvantages, huh? Besides the all-pervasive semi-myth about geeky bookworms (Simply stated, the myth goes Bookworms are geeky), who can speak, off-hand, about the problems, the real problems? Think about it – you excavate your nose from the Lord of the Rings (the one they made the movie on, yes) and realise that in the past hour, your

I am writing this to you drunk, From a bathtub in Jerusalem. This room is gold like the city itself: stone sitting smugly on strata pedestals looking down haughtily at my scrawny form: Scribbling ego into scraps. scripts. dusty dreams. Humming history Till tongue is soaked in movements and images of people burying all mystery in the same old void. I was speaking to the Rabbi’s wife tonight, Slurring my words and cursing myself and only thinking about The dead bird stuck in the Wailing Wall Its beak jammed in there like a personal love letter to God, its wings flapping like dead weights. From here the world loo

I drew a heart and wrote your name       And said "Forever" in fancy letters on top of the page. But you never saw it before. I had no intention of showing you               Back then you didn't even know my name. You were the star in high school       I watched them swoon but never love you. Because they couldn't love you            I loved you                   &

1. dry leaves- I remember the perfect spiral of my worn pigskin 2. asking her out by email I proofread every word then- delete 3. flipping to the free space in my journal- but how can five lines hold autumn dusk? 4. sorority bake sale the girl I dumped last year serves me a cold brownie 5. Thanksgiving- above the dinner prayer the howl of a stray dog 6. fall carnival the tarot woman's hand warm against my own 7. even in the cool of night air the rose climbing her ankle

You can't always win a nobel prize or vicarious eyes drive-by glances momentary chances while thinking of ways to rhyme biohazard with a 2 syllable word; I spew lizard, despite how absurd, and whether or not that strikes you in awe or raises a brow, or opens your jaw, regardless of whatever you're thinking right now, this has no relevance... to anything. At all. Sometimes you write about humanity's flaws, write to grant laughter, or analyze God, but then when you write, you imagine your bed! so maybe you'd rather be writing about... socks, instead. It shouldn't take long since i'm very much familiar and quite frankly,

 I was promised horses.  I remember this distinctly. My dad knew as well as I that moving isn’t easy, especially to a place so very far away, so he would cushion it with promises such as these.  Thoughts of horses and mountain ranches made the process of tearing away from my homeland all that more bearable, so I complied.  My visions were of a log cabin situated on the hips of the foothills, with gentle mares that would lean their heads in my window in the heat of summer mornings.  Of dirt roads and tractors, of cattle and barbed wire.  But mostly horses, of course. Colorado is not all horses and ranches.  Our house turned out to squ

Dear Honorable Mr. Holmes: I bring to you hearty greetings from across the pond. However, as you likely have already surmised by the small smudge on the address bar of the envelope undoubtedly caused by a bead of my own sweat, I also deliver a quandary for the likes of your finely honed skills. As you may know, a survey was recently conducted of 3,000 of your fellow Britons, asking whether certain figures were real or fictional. When your name came up, Mr. Holmes, 58 percent said you were real. Isn't that preposterous? That means 42 percent believe you're a fake! I can only think that such hoodwinkery be caused by some sort of slanderous p