There is a woman in yellow looking at me. She looks sweet like a buttery bread ready to be dipped in tea.
She is looking at me.
Her eyes brown like chocolate silk
As they flow down like chocolate milk.
She doesn’t blink.
Her face is blank, she doesn’t think.
Trying so hard to look mellow in all her yellow.
Her limbs are limp like jello.
Her skin looks cold
As if she needs someone to hold.
A sound of blasting thunder is sung
As she remains forever young.
She never looks away and she never makes a sound.
She melts like red butter on the ground.
There is a woman in yellow looking at me.
I was the last person she saw before she took herself out of her misery.
Tag Archives: writing
Stripes – Bryn Bluth
Distance is simply a concept of space, unfortunately, however, it’s a very real one. There was nothing missing before we met, no chunks falling out here or there, I was a happy, whole, person, but your goofy hair and radiant attitude enraptured my mind and filled me to the brim. It was some adventure, that summer; you taught me how to read into the stars for a better understanding of my soul while showing me how to spread just enough strawberry cream cheese on my bagel. We sat in store windows and questioned the rationality of inflatable ties, passed Italian sodas back and forth between Sci Fi novellas found amongst our late-night library visits, summited mountains, breathless and heaving; I conquered lightning storms for you, so I could watch the elation on your moonlit face as you played your third last round of frisbee soccer two hours past curfew. We had something beautiful, and we still do, it’s simply been stretched from one coast to the other, marred by extended separation, but that’s okay- our relationship is a tiger which has earned its stripes.
But I’m starting to forget how my name tastes in your mouth and that scares me, because surface tension is a fragile thing, and I want a tomorrow for our tiger.
Basic – Ian Dean
Though provoked with adolescent struggle and pubescent instinct,
I still think I was naïve
Too naïve to see that in between the mist-ridden breaths of the deceivers,
One I could call betrothed to me, would break my allegiance.
The image was vivid, or maybe just arrogant sound piercing my ears causes me pain,
But I know that you, whose rapturing thrust shatters deep into my heart,
Hath betrayed me.
I sought appreciation and understanding,
And though little was given, I was thankful.
Never revealing your motive or peaked intellect, I knew only what was necessary.
You saw me,
Someone with little experience and even less self-confidence.
So quasi-decisive you satisfied your hunger with my innocent being
With no hope for any fowl retribution to mask your guilt.
In a sense of pure nostalgia, I would say how
You were sweet, kind, relatable, but yet so menacingly calm and distant;
Like the moon who orbit’s us.
I’d never gotten rushed into friendship, and although we weren’t attracted,
I felt tragically bonded to you.
I felt special and stimulated
As with drug’s first kiss.
Almost as I should have seen you coming, I began to love you.
I classified you as far greater than a simple friend, but a companion.
Though you’d rather devise a bloated stratagem as you devoured my sensibility and patience
As a frantic mouse in a serpent’s den.
The blow was sudden, and the kill was agile and swift leaving no wounds or signs of trauma;
Just more voids to fill.
And you, the one to have and to hold some grudge,
Raved for my collapse
Eventually gaining whatever sick gratification that doth ensure.
And you, the one to absorb my grievances,
Left me to rot;
Unconscious and stricken with the shock of my rejection that followed your dagger’s final clutch
You must think yourself the victress of my demise.
But I, more that you, can affect the perceptions of many;
My glory in failure.
I’ve cast a veil no mere property could disavow
After all, I have captivated your entity to total rage with my mere presence.
You are of a quantity so basic that you cannot even
Quell your own flaws to properly dismantle mine,
Inferior.
Respiratory Arrest – Samantha Forsyth
Mother is dying and you’re watching her. You’re left sputtering, coughing up tarred lungs in sterile hallways. Meanwhile, your face is tearstained, spilling out faster than it can dry. The back of your hand wipes across your face hard and the air is thin with anesthesia and disinfectant. There is a responsibility in your asphyxiation, an obligation you’re held to.
Last night, you went to bed without dinner, without saying goodnight. You knew you’d be sorry by morning, but it was supposed to be because mother would stay up worrying about you. Who will drive you to school tomorrow and who will yell at you for coming home late and who will you steal cigarettes from anymore.
One might question your upbringing, leaning in doorways like that. Waiting all hated and damned in intensive care, the ending won’t come easily for either of you. Tracheostomies are trying to heal behind gauze thick and damp. Blood spreading from behind, ugly and scarring and not how someone should look before they die.
But she was a daughter once too, wasn’t born into the poison skin she’s in now. Stealing cigarettes and smelling like smoke must have been hereditary, handed down and yours for the taking. That’s all you’ve ever been good at. In between the flatline tones and your first breath afterwards, the smoke hits back hard.
Lungs wrung out, you’re the only one left with chest heaving and breaths struggling. They soon surrender to sighs set so deep inside you, they once were your mother’s ashen inhales. But you don’t have to share those with her anymore, don’t have to tell anyone how you really feel about your mother’s death, and now you’re both feeling better.
Natural Disaster – Maria Gray
i. my best friend tells me
she is a misprint in her own life story
because no one has ever told her
she can narrate it herself
ii. at age twelve, the lightning
stretching across my hips demands
more attention than any other natural disaster
and even holding my skeleton together
seems like more trouble than it’s worth
iii. i am helping elementary schoolers
during their quarter-hour break
from a theater class, making sure
they fill up their water bottles
and nibble on their graham crackers
when one dark-eyed little girl
confesses she thinks she is too big
to let anything past her crooked teeth
iv. every magazine i’ve ever read
tells skinny girls to wear large shirts
to create the illusion of a bust
and tells larger girls to don
vertical stripes and straight cuts
to form a shrinking silhouette because
no matter a woman’s size
the most beautiful part of her
is always the negative space
v. i may usually be terrified of heights
but i don’t get vertigo when i look down
and see where i used to be because
it’s no secret: i am better off where i am
Sacrilegious – Reilly Wieland
You’re the proverbs in my mind, the John 3:16 that turns over inside of me- even if that’s
sacrilegious
I am religious in a way that my god does not wear white,
but drinks his coffee black because his lips are like sugar
You are the sin I am confessing, the word that comes to me in my time of need and the being I say my Hail Marys for
Your lips are like wine, blessed, and they are mouthing something to me while I scroll through the pages in a fruitless attempt to find parables that justify this
I’ve found Eden in your breath, and it feels like my skin is etched with gold, like North Star of your love.
I am not a saint, but a martyr, and even when I fail to find my faith, you resurrect like on Easter Sunday- gifting your wisdom that reeks like like gold, frankincense and myrrh.
The letters according to you stating that it will be okay have been written on my mind in permanent ash, running deep in my veins with the way that you make me feel like I could turn water to wine.
When you’re around me I feel sacrilegious, the way you have your hand wrapped around my thoughts makes me question my beliefs because
the facts aren’t as easy to fall asleep with as heaven is, sometimes
and I don’t want to ever read scripture again if it isn’t about the way that you look during the summers
My church has no damnation or forbidden fruit, it has stories and you, and the prophetic power that I felt when you asked me who my god was
Thoughts – Harika Kottakota
A solemn beauty
Profound and universal, rooted and blooming
That entails enigmatic tomorrows
Rimmed with ochre
A dear requiem
Of scarce constancy
Teetering between virtue and sin
Like spinning dimes
A dogmatic mutiny
Alloys rage with leadership for blades
Winds, now messengers of cinder
Dwindles into reason
A robust spirit
Inoculates joy, tranquilizes despair
As it pledged upon
The frontiers of space and time
Mountains Are Hard to Overcome – Brooke Safferman
The box of crayons lay on the coffee table, stains from early-morning espresso tattooed on the mahogany. Leona rose upon her four-year-old legs and waddled her way over from her napping mat to empty out all of the colors from the Crayola carton: Cerulean, Yellow Green, Green Yellow, Fuschia, Purple Mountain Majesty… Purple Mountain Majesty. Leona asserted her dominance over the crayon, pressing with as much force as her pudgy hand could muster until the tip shrunk away into dullness.
“Nice picture, Leona! I’ve never seen a purple person before in my life, but you’ve done a great job. Is that a tutu on him?” her father exclaimed. “Huh! Maggie, come look at Leona’s work!” Leona’s mother clacked across the marble floor in practical heels that were the perfect companion to her equally-practical pinstripe pant-suit.
“Oh, Leona!” Maggie’s voice echoed upwards thirteen feet to the ceiling. “Tell Mommy and Daddy about your pretty picture. James, go grab the video camera! We should save this.” Leona’s father galloped out of the room, searching for the Sony camcorder. Maggie peered over Leona’s shoulder to get a better look at the drawing. She bit her flawlessly manicured cuticles when she saw. “JAMES. You didn’t tell me that Leona drew… this! Come back in here right now. We need to talk about this!”
When he returned four minutes later, he pressed the “RECORD” button despite his wife’s displeasure, and Leona began her artist’s statement. “Purple Mountain Majesty is my most favorite color. It’s my favorite because it’s very pretty and so is the person I drew. He is a princess, because both boys and princesses are my favorite, too!” Leona giggled, kissing the princess.
James’s eyes widened as he whispered, “Should I keep recording?” Maggie bit her lip. Nodding her head, as making quick yet sound decisions was a talent of hers, she sat down on the burgundy leather couch and patted the cushion beside her. Leona loyally clambered up next to her, waving her picture in her mother’s face.
“Leona, aren’t people white or black, usually? You know people aren’t purple, right, sweetheart?” Eyes locked between mother and daughter. James puzzledly attempted to zoom in with the camera with no avail.
“You can’t tell if a person is good or bad if they are white or black. That’s why I picked Purple Mountain Majesty, because that is a color I love. So, I know this person is nice.”
Maggie flipped open her pocket mirror and applied her “Perfectly Passionate”-hued lipstick, which she always thought demanded attention. She turned to her husband. “James, shut the camera off.” James fervently shook his head in protest. “James, I mean it. Turn it off. Now.”
“No way, Maggie. Let her keep talking. Ask her more questions.”
Maggie blew a forceful breath out of her nostrils, and shut her eyes. “Fine. So Leona, honey, why on Earth did you make such a pretty princess be a boy for, huh? Mommy knows you love both boys and princesses, but princesses can only be girls!”
James finally turned off the camera. “Maggie.”
“What? It’s true! You want her to think that boys can wear fairy tutus and princess crowns and prance around as they please? I’m doing her a favor here, James. I’m doing us a favor.”
At that moment, Leona scrambled off the couch and plopped down next to her nearby arts-and-crafts box. She unscrewed the cap to the pink glitter, and poured the entire tube onto the form of the princess. James and Maggie’s eyes flicked back to meet each other’s glances.
“Spreading hatred is the opposite of doing us a favor. Let her do what she wants.”
“No! I will not have my little girl confused about the way things should be. Boys cannot be princesses, and people are not purple. End of story.” Maggie stood up, reaching for her structured leather briefcase. The cross-body style was practical, something Maggie not only adored but also used to rationalize paying $1,258 for it at the local Neiman Marcus. She was home for the afternoon only because her sister was coming into town. “And Jenna will be here any minute, and I expect you to be nice this time.”
Maggie clacked off into the master bedroom to change into something less office-ready, leaving James standing in the family room by himself. His brow furrowed. There’s nothing wrong with princess boys! Lee-Lee’s just a little kid; she can do whatever the hell she wants. Maggie needs to stop being so strict all the time. He kneaded his stubble a little too forcefully as he contemplated, leaving a red spot along his jawline.
Leona dumped the glitter off of her picture. It was only sticking to the tutu because she had squeezed some glue onto it, an action unnoticed during her parents’ mêlée.
“Maaaa-gieeeee!” Maggie’s twin, Jenna had the type of voice that made a guy wish he magically had earplugs lying around in his pockets. James stifled a groan.
“JENNA!” Maggie scurried across the floor, assaulting her sister with a hug. She had put on jeans and a cardigan, which although more casual than her pantsuit, were still very sensible.
“Hey, Jenna,” James mumbled. If Jenna heard him, she didn’t show it. The 28-year-old sisters compared everything constantly – careers, love lives, manicures. Competition was the norm with these two, and it gave James a tension headache. He shuffled into the bathroom to worship the Excedrin gods. Leona, on the other hand, worshipped Jenna.
“Leona, look how pretty you are! And my God, so grown up! You’re going to drive all the boys crazy with desire.” Jenna stroked Leona’s fine strands of strawberry blonde strands hair as her gaze drifted to The Drawing.
“I drew a boy right now, too!” Leona’s smile, lacking front teeth, was enchanting enough to cause Jenna to accept that there was a purple boy that looked like a princess waving around in her face.
“Can I get you some coffee.” Maggie didn’t wait for an answer because it wasn’t spoken as a question. She hurried into the kitchen and began fumbling with the Keurig.
Jenna reached out and held Leona’s paper in her hands, running her index finger upon the sticky glitter. “Leona… Oh, Leona, you did draw a boy, didn’t you?”
James emerged from the bathroom, massaging his temples. “She did a good job, Jenna. Purple Mountain Majesty is a great color. It’s a color of inspiration. Mountains are hard to overcome. You need a lot of strength, especially mentally, to climb them.”
“I know this. I think it’s beautiful, James. It might not be Maggie’s cup of tea, but I am a big fan of the arts. Can you get us some tape?”
Jenna took Leona by the hand and together they strode out of the room. That lady is so damn high and mighty, James thought. He soon joined them, tape dispenser in hand. Jenna pressed Leona’s drawing up to the girl’s bedroom wall with one hand, and gestured with the other to James for him to come over and help her out.
“There!” He smiled, smoothing the tape against the wall. Leona clapped her hands, her giggle frolicking throughout the room.
“NO.” Maggie stomped in, brusquely setting the coffee mug she was holding on Leona’s dresser. She made her way over to her daughter’s offending wall décor.
“Stop, Maggie!” Jenna tried to pry her sister’s hands off of the picture but with a final tug, Maggie obtained the purple-hued male princess in her well-groomed clutches. Jenna could only stare, unable to disguise the hurt in her eyes.
James stood back, raking his fingertips through his hair. If they were going to start arguing, he was not going to stay. Leona looked up at him, her rapidly blinking eyes wet with confusion.
“Come on, Lee-Lee. Wanna do something fun? Let’s go get you some ice cream!” Nodding, Leona locked an arm around her father’s leg, and wiped her nose on his jeans. He didn’t care for them much because they were a little tight in the seat, but Maggie insisted they looked great. They were from True Religion.
“James, wait.” All eyes shifted to Maggie. “Don’t go.” She looked. Her husband and little girl were going off to have fun without her.
“Why not? So I can watch you teach our daughter to buy into all this hatred and bullshit we’re force-fed to believe!?” He was next to his wife now, pointing one shaking finger at the paper in her hand.
“No,” she whispered, gazing down at Leona’s masterpiece. She began gently swabbing away tears with her thumb.
“Why, then?” he asked softly, placing his palm on the small of her back.
“I need more tape.”
Kaleidoscope – Casey Miller
It was like an old, unfinished film
With the melody and tune
A lea full of kaleidoscopic posy
It was like a dream to her
Boys and girls gathered in rhythm,
Lovers and friends and colors swirling
And flowing and happy and warm
Drinking and eating and inhaling and believing
Frolicking in fields of wildflowers, feeling as free
As the petals escaping with the breeze
Petals flying far away, skipping over countries
And continents until they find their match, their lover
She dances, eyes shut, waiting for hers
To take her by the hand and to whisper in her ear
To tell her where they are going, without saying why
1953 – Casey Miller
Bronzed skin spills over lounges with a heated sun
Melting them into the white Aegean landscape
Sun hats are the only shade in these areas
Aristocrats basking above cliffs thousands of feet below
Women fawning over Hepburn’s eyebrows, claiming to spend
Thousands on their own mien frons
Men like body builders with tanning oil slipping off their figures,
Like kings diving into the lagoon
As their queens gush over engagements,
Marriages occurring a thousand miles away
Or a jaunt to the next island
And the pool boy observes, he watches
As the young, rich and famous and younger, richer and famouser
Spill posh secrets and spend high numbers
On rounds of Greyhound cocktails
As they gossip about Eisenhower’s hidden agenda
And the new British Queen’s past love affairs
But they certainly were not prepared.
Neither the pool boy nor the rich and famous
expected what came next, as the Yenice-Gönen
quake struck, and shattered their very existence.
Inkling 