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Literature Text
In an apartment building two streets over, passing a can of coffee in between them, were two people. It was hours after midnight and they were in the kitchen.
She was busy doodling on the corners of a white legal pad.
Page after page of trying to get the contours of a solar system just right.
Caffeine-drenched, 2AM sketches waiting to be set in motion.
Flip book processing plant.
A party was going on in the apartment next door. Wine glasses clinked and sounded vaguely like ice cubes cracking.
Crap.
Pluto won't fit.
Still a planet at least on the page.
The can of caffeine and adrenaline exchanged hands. Sticky fingers brought it up to artificially-flavored lips.
He was sitting on the counter,
Static mixed with the cracking of eggs; static was the fizzle of the frying pan.
No interruptions, not enough night left.
She missed Mom and he missed the point.
She thought they were compatible.
Like Ophiuchus and snake's tails;
Like the wolf and the dogs.
She told him that once.
He was still trying to figure out why he was still there.
The frying pan is in the closet;
The clothes are in the cupboard.
That was the first night they were aware of each other. Flip books and channel surfing, trying to get something across the gulf that weaved deep into the woodwork. They were using languages that neither of them spoke. The window was open and they both saw words trickle in through the smog.
She tried to pick some of them out:
"soon...be home"
"no longer a Pisces"
"see you next week"
"maybe he's gay"
He was still focused on the eggs from next door.
The words fell on top of her sketches and formed a filmy layer, like oil on water.
He was getting hungry.
Radio wave inspiration lost,
She'd thrown away the outlines and he'd minimized his footsteps.
She was asleep,
Hands tired and cold.
The universe sprawled on the table.
He picked up the forlorn planets on paper
and traced their orbits.
They hadn't cooked in a while. Take-out could only last so long.
He sat down,
Closed the door halfway so he could still see her,
And proceeded to look for Ophiuchus under the stairs.
She was busy doodling on the corners of a white legal pad.
Page after page of trying to get the contours of a solar system just right.
Caffeine-drenched, 2AM sketches waiting to be set in motion.
Flip book processing plant.
A party was going on in the apartment next door. Wine glasses clinked and sounded vaguely like ice cubes cracking.
Cracked eggs?
Was it too early for breakfast?
Crap.
Pluto won't fit.
Still a planet at least on the page.
The can of caffeine and adrenaline exchanged hands. Sticky fingers brought it up to artificially-flavored lips.
He was sitting on the counter,
near the kitchen sink,
adjusting the radio,
and getting Nothing on every station.
Static mixed with the cracking of eggs; static was the fizzle of the frying pan.
No interruptions, not enough night left.
She missed Mom and he missed the point.
An exercise in attentiveness.
She thought they were compatible.
Like Ophiuchus and snake's tails;
Like the wolf and the dogs.
She told him that once.
He was still trying to figure out why he was still there.
The frying pan is in the closet;
The clothes are in the cupboard.
Nursery rhymes told us we could jump over the moon on Broadway.
That was the first night they were aware of each other. Flip books and channel surfing, trying to get something across the gulf that weaved deep into the woodwork. They were using languages that neither of them spoke. The window was open and they both saw words trickle in through the smog.
She tried to pick some of them out:
"soon...be home"
"no longer a Pisces"
"see you next week"
"maybe he's gay"
He was still focused on the eggs from next door.
The words fell on top of her sketches and formed a filmy layer, like oil on water.
Cooking oil?
He was getting hungry.
Radio wave inspiration lost,
he let go of the dials and speakers and
began the search for the frying pan.
She'd thrown away the outlines and he'd minimized his footsteps.
She was asleep,
Hands tired and cold.
The universe sprawled on the table.
He picked up the forlorn planets on paper
and traced their orbits.
Then he walked to the closet under the stairs
and pushed past walls of silverware.
He stacked the pots and pans high
and cleared a space on the forgotten floor.
He did remember Mother
and hid how much he missed her.
They hadn't cooked in a while. Take-out could only last so long.
He sat down,
Closed the door halfway so he could still see her,
And proceeded to look for Ophiuchus under the stairs.
Literature
kaleidoscope.
Even though it is said that the human eye can see about 16.8 million different colors, we're all pretty much color blind in the end.
Today, I am blue, and you are red; today the fear begins again.
The sky is a milky white and your eyes are an empty grey, but you somehow still manage a smile: this is the first thing I notice. The second is that your shoes are untied, then that your gaze seems unfocused, then that your hair is a disaster, then that your voice sounds like rain – and I hate rain.
You catch my stare.
I turn away because I am afraid.
You are uncertainty and unpredictability, and for this, I hate you; the unexpected is a d
Literature
A Collapsible God
My teeth hum to the static
of your spine scraping our headboard.
Absentmindedly, I trace my thumb and forefinger
along the base of your skull
to find the point where
.brain.meets.body.
My nails pierce skin and dive through vulnerable muscle.
Yanking up, I rip out your backbone and shake your body limp.
I've got your vertebrae rattling across mahogany floorboards,
-let's see her try to sweep those under the rug, s w e e t i e -
You would be whimpering, but I love
love
loved you
for your voice and for those chords, d a r l i n g .
Your luscious chords were being wasted
in such a rabbit-eyed-boy.
I can't listen one more day
Literature
you were the infidel
i told you there is a difference between wanting to kill yourself
and wanting to die.
you said you didn't care, i could do either
and goodnight.
-
i taught you how to climb a pine tree
and how to tie your shoelaces one-handed;
i sang you the alphabet backwards until you knew it by heart
(you knew me by heart).
sometimes i would weave daisies through your hair
and you would keep them there
until they wilted.
-
once i dared you to scale the neighbor's fence and
bring me a tomato from her garden.
i thought you knew i wasn't serious
but you vaulted up and back over with a tomato in your hand.
you told me you would do a
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First time abusing so many html tags. @-) Sorry about that. Indenting is crazy shizzle. I just wanted to make everything look clearer. I guess this only looks clearer in my world. But I swear, I wasn't just playing with the enter button.
...Okay, maybe I was. A little. XD But this format means something to me...Uh, I hope it does for you too? XDD
The inspiration process for this little piece of randomness was long, confusing and complicated, as I'm sure a lot of inspiration processes normally are. Or maybe not, I don't know how people's brains work~
Anyway, suffice it to say that I started writing it in a Chinese restaurant, scrawling on a pad of non-sticky post-its while my family was eating a plate of squid heads, then I stuffed it inside a USB case since I couldn't very well stick it onto anything. Final edits were done at around three thirty in the morning.
Title inspiration comes in two parts:
1. I heard rumors of the new zodiac sign, Ophiuchus. And yes, gaddammit, I am no longer a Pisces.
2. #Live-Love-Write 's prompt "Under The Stairs"
Damn these categories. For the sake of just living an easier life, let's just pretend this is poetry and just go on with our lives.
EDIT: Holy crap people, what started as a random ramble ended up giving me my first feature ever. [link] Thank you all so much for all the lovely, touching comments. I never knew it was so exhausting to thank people but I swear it was the best kind of exhaustion in the world. Nothing beats this moment. Right here, right now. Thank you so so much.
...Okay, maybe I was. A little. XD But this format means something to me...Uh, I hope it does for you too? XDD
The inspiration process for this little piece of randomness was long, confusing and complicated, as I'm sure a lot of inspiration processes normally are. Or maybe not, I don't know how people's brains work~
Anyway, suffice it to say that I started writing it in a Chinese restaurant, scrawling on a pad of non-sticky post-its while my family was eating a plate of squid heads, then I stuffed it inside a USB case since I couldn't very well stick it onto anything. Final edits were done at around three thirty in the morning.
Title inspiration comes in two parts:
1. I heard rumors of the new zodiac sign, Ophiuchus. And yes, gaddammit, I am no longer a Pisces.
2. #Live-Love-Write 's prompt "Under The Stairs"
Damn these categories. For the sake of just living an easier life, let's just pretend this is poetry and just go on with our lives.
EDIT: Holy crap people, what started as a random ramble ended up giving me my first feature ever. [link] Thank you all so much for all the lovely, touching comments. I never knew it was so exhausting to thank people but I swear it was the best kind of exhaustion in the world. Nothing beats this moment. Right here, right now. Thank you so so much.
© 2011 - 2024 kakashiplushie
Comments48
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Wow! Some great imagery here - I didn't understand it all, but I do think I grasped the feeling. And Pluto is SO a planet. 
You are still a Pisces. People can't just decide that a tradition that has been around for centuries needs changed now. Besides, scientists made this discovery, and scientists don't generally look favorably upon astrology. So...maybe they should just leave it be. Plus, mystic traditions like that morph over time, so by this point it's not so much about the exact placement in the sky, as it is about where the signs fall in the tradition.
...if my rant made any sense at all.
Anyway, excellent piece.
You are still a Pisces. People can't just decide that a tradition that has been around for centuries needs changed now. Besides, scientists made this discovery, and scientists don't generally look favorably upon astrology. So...maybe they should just leave it be. Plus, mystic traditions like that morph over time, so by this point it's not so much about the exact placement in the sky, as it is about where the signs fall in the tradition.
...if my rant made any sense at all.
Anyway, excellent piece.