Do you remember when we used to sleep on the trampoline?
When we'd fall over laughing, bruising ourselves on the gravel of our driveways
Sideways, crashing down
I can hardly remember those days anymore
I only remember the soreness of my limbs and tree bark against my skin while I climbed
The path we carved in the woods to a place we considered sacred and holy
The pain we explained to each other in a tiny room without light
The flowers we exchanged in hopeful dreams of retaliation
The tears in your eyes when you said you were leaving
The breath we shared for three seconds
The time it took to get up
The space between us
I don't know about you
But I can hardly remember those days anymore
Not Okay [TW: Violence, Death]
I feel like paint that was left out for too long. A splash of dark red. The same color currently spreading across my sister's chest.
Southfield Freeway, Michigan.
May 3, 2014.
The hood of the car crumples like tin foil.
Glass shards fly everywhere.
I’m screaming and Kay’s screaming and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. Something punches me in the face so hard I hear my nose break.
The car veers off the road and smashes into the railing. The world is ripped apart like wet paper, but it sounds like metal on metal. Pain spreads through my body, stabbing and twisting. There's a high-pitched ringing in my ears and my hands are covered in blood.
The car finally comes to a halt, and I am but a mass of blood and flayed skin. Where is my sister?
I fumble for the door handle, grappling with the airbag. The ringing in my ears is slowly fading and I hear screams coming from outside. Someone says “Is she alive?” They think I’m dead, but I’m not dead, I’m fine. I need to find Kay.
My shaking hands open the door and I fall out of the car. I get to my feet and see a cluster of people gathered around something in the street. Multiple cars are pulled over, blocking the intersection and creating a huge line of backup traffic.
A woman grips my shoulders and says something like are you okay? I nod and stumble toward the group. I shouldn't be able to move, but somehow I make my way to the front of the car.
“Kay!” I yell. "Where's Kay?" My voice makes some people look up. Many of them are crying. I shove my way to the front. Finally, I see what everyone’s looking at.
Kay is sprawled facedown in the middle of the street. Her dark brown hair fans around her head, and her purple shirt has fresh blood on it.
I fall to my knees. The world is black and empty and I can't see or hear or breathe or feel anything. I don't think I will ever feel anything ever again.
If I did, I don't think I'd be able to stand it.
Do I Look Like I Want To Talk?
I like it that way
When someone finds my alcove, my nook
I give them the look.
Do I look like I want to talk?
When I was in school
Every desk pushed together, a cluster, a group
Every damn class
Forced to discuss, chat, talk.
I'm no good at that.
Schools designed for extroverts
Lessons made to engage students in conversations
How is that fair to all of us quiet folks?
Do I look like I want to talk?
Welcome To The Restaurant of Me
Let me give you a piece of pie
No wait, a piece of my mind.
Welcome to the restaurant of me.
Grapefruit puree with basil
I'm sour and sweet at the same time,
With time, I'll decide which to be around you.
Basil for a garnish
And because it's tasty. I have good taste. That should be evident.
Cucumbers topped with cream cheese and dill
Crisp and sweet.
Cream cheese because it is the superior cheese.
Dill because I'm chill and silly until you're too frilly and things get chilly
Lettuce salad with carrots, ranch dressing, and blue cheese
Lettuce because it's the best. Confidence. Knowing my power.
Carrots because I'm tough.
Ranch because yes.
Blue cheese because I've got style.
Creamy and potato-y.
Get to know me and you'll discover that I'm actually quite goofy.
But it's too messy to eat around a bunch of people.
It's too strange to talk around a bunch of people.
I prefer to eat potato salad with one or two people.
Chicken Alfredo With Herbs
Our chicken is always tasty and never chewy or stringy. Just right.
Alfredo is saucy and delicious. Cheese without the gooey aspect.
Linguini noodles make things interesting.
Herbs such as oregano, thyme, and basil on top. Herbs make everything better.
Nothing fancy. A plain old scone. Very delicious.
My own recipe. Original, yet traditional. I am creative, and it shows in this tasty pastry.
Highly recommended. Moist, buttery, banana-y, nutty. Delicious.
You can’t have banana bread without walnuts.
You also can’t have banana bread without bananas. Obviously.
And you can’t have me without everything that makes me, me.
I hope you enjoyed your meal. Please rate us on Google and come again!
I can't breathe. I mean, I could, but it would likely end with me not breathing. Permanently.
So I hold my breath as the Survivor slithers past my hiding place. If I make even a miniscule sound, I'll never make it out of here alive. If I do nothing, I will meet the same fate.
My vision begins to swim. Black spots push their way to the surface of my eyes and I imagine how it would feel to die here.
The Survivor huffs and I hear the sound of blades retracting. It's leaving.
I can take it no longer. I let my lungs empty and fill, over and over, quietly and greedily. Never before has air tasted so sweet.
And then there comes the clicking.
The Survivor is back.
And it knows exactly where I am.
I run, breathing as much as I need but all the worse for it.
I know I won't be breathing much longer.
I run anyway.
They call them Survivors because they can survive anything. They literally survived the end of the world.
And now, it seems like I won't.
Sluggish, I pump my legs. I focus on the space ahead of me.
I cannot hear it. Smell it. See it.
But I know it's there.
I'm still running,
I will not survive this. I know that. Running is futile, yet every fraction of my body tells me to escape.
That maybe there's a chance.
The Survivor will outrun me. Will outlive me.
Still, I run.
"This isn't up for debate."
"We're debating right now, aren't we?"
"Shut it. I've already made up my mind. I'm not changing it now."
"Alright, alright. I just wanted to say--"
"No! I will NOT."
"Just thinking about that chocolate cake I have hidden in the house."
"What, not interested?"
"What chocolate cake?"
"The one I could go buy."
"I thought you said--"
"No, idiot. I was kidding. I was trying to be subtle, but nooo. Bribery! Ever heard of it?"
"Yes. With a chocolate cake."
"You're gonna bribe me with a chocolate cake?"
"Now you're just repeating everything I'm saying. I think I'm accidentally hypnotizing you. This could work out in my favor..."
"I'm still not doing it."
"Oh come on! It would be funny!"
"Yeah, to the whole neighborhood, I'm sure."
"Exactly! Alright, one whole chocolate cake aaaand... I'll dye my hair pink."
"Your hair is already dyed! What difference does a color change make?"
"Good point. I was going to dye it pink anyway."
"I will NOT do it. No way. I'm not humiliating myself like that."
"Get out of my room, would you?"
"No. WAIT. I will... admit... that you were... urg... right. That one time. You know the one."
"You have yourself a deal."
Here, gimme your heart.
You've got a crystal one? Nice. Special. Easily breakable.
I'll fix it.
You could say I'm the blacksmith of hearts. Heartsmith?
Shattered crystal heart, you give me
Your love, your soul, your trust
Dripping, molten gold
Veins of glue,
My hand wraps around the glass
The colors warped and gorgeous
Good as new!
Don't go shattering your crystal heart again.
Types Of Writers
There are so many different types of writers. I am the type who loves to not talk to anyone all day, drink tea, read my favorite novels, and eat carrots with ranch dressing at three in the morning.
I also love typewriters.
They're so fancy. And beautiful. And so much less distracting than a computer. So much quicker than writing by hand.
I wanted: 1. To create a typewriter pun, and 2. To express how different we all are. And how special it is to create connections with other writers and appreciate both our differences and our similarities.
Also, writers type, right? So type righter. I mean typewriter.
That's the only thing of hers left in our old apartment
In the place where empty laughs echoed through the minuscule hallway,
Where we played tic tac toe on our arms,
Doodled on the walls and repainted them purple
Broke ice and hearts on tales of needlework
Screamed until our lungs burned
At least mine did.
She had used that screwdriver to unscrew our dusty vent,
We inhaled decades of grime, coughing and laughing
We gasped when we found a mouse, dead
She cried when she saw it
A Phillips head screwdriver
It came with screws and everything! But
She never used them
She told me to throw out the mouse,
After, she buried her head in my shirt and murmured about death
She wanted to stay with me forever, she said
To never die, to be immortal
I told her it was just a mouse.
It was a Tuesday when she
S h e
Tuesday. It was a Tuesday.
It was only a mouse.
It was only an argument.
It was only... a screwdriver.
When she died, she left me that screwdriver
As a sort of "screw you."
A Soggy Card Game
“Come on, man. CHOOSE. Thirty seconds ’till I’m declaring myself the winner.”
Jules rolled her eyes at her opponent. Sidney was tall, with seed-colored skin and freckles. At the moment, he was staring at the cards on the table as if one of them had started growing an arm.
“Alright. Hit me,” he finally said.
Jules flipped over the top card from the deck and slapped it down. King of Spades. It was a bust.
Sidney groaned and Jules grinned. She was the winner! Again.
“Double or nothing? You can pick who goes first.” Jules smirked.
“Fine. But we both know I’m just digging my own grave.”
“You know, Blackjack is like, fifty percent luck. You’d think you would win at some point…”
It was at that moment that both teenagers were doused with a large quantity of water.
“TRISTAN!” Spluttered Jules. Sidney looked shocked, droplets beading down his hair, from the roots to the split ends. “Ooh, I’m gonna kill that little…”
The air was filled with thick laughter as Jules’ little brother stepped out from behind a hedge, wielding a hose and riding a hoe like a broomstick. Tristan's fruit-shaped face was host to an evil grin.
“You can’t catch me!” Tristan screeched. He took off running down the street, leaving behind the hose, from which water was still flowering.
Sidney and Jules stood up and looked in dismay at the soggy remains of their card game.
Jules, ever hardy, sent a sly, sideways glance at Sidney. “Let’s call it a tie.”