Entries By Anna Meursault
Displaying 1 To 30 Of 58 Entries
despite
All that she ate, her stomach is not full, the feeling churns into acid (probably not). All that he swam, his arms were not tired, the water spread past him (in a wave). All that I touch, my fingertip is burned, the etching moves like plastic (spiral pattern).
Posted By Anna Meursault On 09.19.2012 @ 4:34 am
together
Like the string fraying on a pair of: Jeans and think for a moment about what the color blue might sing on a Monday Or a Tuesday – I’m not too picky.
That’s a lie.
Instead take a look at the fireworks crashing in my ear on a Saturday: Mornings used to be easier to deal with.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 09.17.2012 @ 12:29 pm
side
I think the most important part of all of this was that his hands were clasped, arms jutting forward. There he stood, a battering ram of flaking skin and curly hair and he still charged.
From the distance, I could see his hair was parted straight down the middle.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 08.23.2012 @ 6:14 pm
half
Spread it across a bagel. Or a cracker. Maybe if you’re feeling particularly cultured a pita chip. But well, not many people are willing to put up that sort of pretense to seem cultured.
Actually, you are exactly that type of person.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 08.21.2012 @ 6:45 pm
manners
I’ve recently been dreaming about … they scare me, these things – I wake up in the middle of the night, heart twisting through a figure eight.
I roll to my other side and go back to sleep, try not to wake you up.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 08.09.2012 @ 2:40 pm
camera
trap
The fan spins: once, twice, three times, until even buried under the pile of blankets he feels cold – from the soles of his feet to the tip of his forehead.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 08.01.2012 @ 8:24 pm
cabinet
There is a blank space beneath the corner, in front of the window sill, to the left of the curtains and the right of the flat-screen HD television that he doesn’t need but bought anyway out of a show of machismo or some other tri-syllabic word that he looks up in the dictionary.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 07.28.2012 @ 7:00 pm
overalls
There is an apple on the top of the fence.
Balancing for now, it tends to fall on the right-hand side. The other way lies madness, you once said.
You were wrong (but only the history books will know that).
Posted By Anna Meursault On 07.08.2012 @ 8:52 am
jelly
You sit and wait, keep your eyes open, letting them burn, wanting them to burn until you see the lightning jerk across the edges of clouds.
When you blink, it has already gone by.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 06.06.2012 @ 6:39 pm
hassle
If she wanted to run past plains and plains of skeletons, dark and small, crumbled between the ground and her fingers, she would laugh as the grey-streaked dirt falls behind her.
She does not want to, but this doesn’t stop her.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.31.2012 @ 5:25 pm
calling
There’s this pop in the center of her heart every time she hears her name, sharp and blunt and similar to falling off a three-story building, watching a man put a small knife to her ribs.
The repetitions of her name pang and burst and break and pound and she is afraid. More than she has ever been in her entire life.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.20.2012 @ 7:22 pm
pile
And beside my elbow there is a leaf, thin veins tossed in a net around the surface, green as the grass or the sky or the sun on a nauseating day.
I throw it into the pan, waiting for it to cook.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.19.2012 @ 7:04 pm
primitive
Nails curl beneath our tongues, dry and thin, and crunched with a twang, a snap between two teeth, hastily jammed into red-bleached gums.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.10.2012 @ 6:03 pm
shorthand
She scratches her nail on the writing desks, files it down to a sharp point in the shape of a triangle or needle or slice of pizza, she doesn’t really care for either of the options.
By the time the remaining piece breaks, only a pile of keratin, dust, remains in front of her finger.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.08.2012 @ 3:22 pm
tasting
Control, tight as a rope – slip it between my breast bone till you can count the ridges on each – fragment. Hold it close to your heart, and closer to your lungs. Let it dissolve in your blood.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.07.2012 @ 12:30 pm
instrumental
On the edge of the world, the corner, the radius, the diagonal, there is a small letter – large enough to be read by a young child perhaps, though I doubt you could read it now.
It’s alright. I know I would be the same.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.06.2012 @ 3:17 pm
nominated
Fans spin, and the blades cut through stale air, stretching down to the core of the Earth, the epicenter of a quake. They make things warmer, cycle around and around until it has the appearance of something different, something new.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.05.2012 @ 4:23 pm
upright
Letters strewn, half-formed thoughts drift into his hand – waiting until his fingers open and his bones crack to the shifting of dust across the floor.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.04.2012 @ 4:45 pm
hearing
I will let this bridge burn down as ash and fire and cinders dance in a circle above you. I will let them float down and cover your face, until you cannot see or touch or breathe. I will let you lie on the ground and walk away, stepping on the imprint your body makes on the sand.
You will do nothing to stop me.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.04.2012 @ 8:51 am
separate
It’s pungent, rancid, the taste of devouring toddler oranges or living in a room of whiteboard markers or standing next to you for a while, letting your hatred seep into my skin.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.02.2012 @ 2:06 pm
Rice stalks grow and grow, pieces of green grass and light flowers develop and spread until they choke themselves on the air. Even then, they keep growing.
Maybe they are too afraid to stop.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.01.2012 @ 11:51 am
hallowed
Off of the wall grows a sprig of mint, a sole leaf, flitting around the shimmer of vines and crabgrass, reaching towards the sun or sky or stars, possibly trying to drown on the air, on oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, waiting to be able to assimilate them into itself.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.30.2012 @ 1:34 pm
alibi
Born with a silver spoon, spun from flax and gray thread off an old dress – and it travels between your fingers, underneath your nails, touches your thoughts for an instant, a lifetime, makes everything bright, light and cold.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.30.2012 @ 9:51 am
Having nothing is not the same as doing nothing, though at this point in time she does not know this.
She thinks they are the same, that everything deserving of a nothing is equivalent to an actual lack of existence, and in that aspect she is horribly wrong.
Horribly, since she will only figure this out when she becomes the same, and by that time, she will have been disfigured into a sprawling mess of clothes and hair and skin.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.29.2012 @ 11:28 am
sliver
Signs flash and burn their way into the ceiling, curving circles, steadfast squares, lackadaisical lines morphed into a sort of mess of a design.
It looks a bit like the sky.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.28.2012 @ 5:30 pm
balloons
Colors strewn on the floor, on the sot damp earth, the pest-ridden flowers, twisting and turning until the sea is all but a glorious rainbow, brown and murky, and filled to the brim with dirt.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.28.2012 @ 10:34 am
poster
A block of sand, a marble of gold, a thread of concrete: each of them curls into a single strand and moves alongside the wind, the currents in the nearby stream, the blood swishing beneath my skin.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.26.2012 @ 5:21 pm
gladiator
Metallic pine needles and sorry silver thimbles cover the bottom of the waste basket. Then there is paper and more paper: whole, crumbled, torn, colored.
None of them are written on.
Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.25.2012 @ 11:19 am
