The reason you no longer like chicken noodle soup is because it's what your mother gave you when you were seven and sick. The reason you liked being sick is because she brought you carbonated drinks and saltines, too.

Am I right?

I have been having reoccurring dreams about this shop that only sells wooden owls. The women who owns the shop looks exactly like the owls: she has hair like soy sauce and darkish skin, and huge, violently yellow eyes alarming in their keenness. I suppose that doesn't sound much like an owl, a real one, at least. But when I'm asleep the resemblance ( Read more... )

A little while ago, there was moonlight between my teeth, as slippery and sweet as raspberry seeds, sliding like beads on an abacus as you push them back and forth with your tapered tongue. I spat moon rock at my feet and felt moonlight between my toes, instead ( Read more... )

Sometimes I think about Jordon Orlando and his book I haven't read and how much I miss him and how I amazed him when I wrote in my spring green notebook while we were in that restaurant where wine glasses clicked and wind chime forks danced when happy old misers made gestures to indicate the tires and steering wheel of an Auburn. All I wanted was ( Read more... )

She draws a note in place of the incorrect one; I blink and it swirls into a peacock plume comma, and then my delusions vanish and what is there is simply there. Simple as can be ( Read more... )

Yesterday I was so nervous that it hurt breathe. Oxygen had been scraped into a sharp sword and it cut my throat. I bled blue blood and I knew it because I tasted metallic from fingers to toes. But that is a lie, and you know it,too ( Read more... )

What a delicacy; what a pleasant comedy of errors ( Read more... )

The dull red telephone rings, and I answer it, because there isn't anyone else but shadow puppets to do this, and anyway, I am their puppeteer ( Read more... )

I smell like smoke and licorish.
My head hurts, and I have cold.

I could be in math class right now, but I'm not.

I grow exasperated with newscasters. With those smooth-skinned old men with clean gray hair and clean blue eyes. They read their cues with professional indifference. Never a flicker of emotion crosses those sterilized eyes ( Read more... )