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there was a downpour of rain hitting the wood porch in front of the beautiful pale yellow house. the air was misty and the clouds were low. everyone was sitting out watching and listening to the beautiful sound of the rain hitting the ground. no one liked anything better than a downpour.

Posted By bethany On 11.05.2011 @ 7:46 am

I dont want to do that combination of steps. When is dance class going to be over? Sometimes I just want to leave the floor, take off my shoes, and never, ever do it again. But sometimes I love those turns, the waltzes, moving across the flor floating, dreaming breathing, loving. But sometimes.. yeah,, sometimes I dont love it as much. Jumps, pushing. why is the combination there?

Posted By Bethany On 11.03.2011 @ 10:55 pm

the combination of bleach and amonia started a toxic cloud that slowly wafted over Julia’s sleeping body. The maid did not realize that the family dog has decided to nap in the laundry room on the day that she chose to end her own life…

Posted By Bethany On 11.03.2011 @ 7:10 pm

Never, never does anyone spit profundity in jealousy or anger.

Posted By Bethany On 11.02.2011 @ 12:11 pm

There’s a cold shell sculpted against that frozen brick wall hidden in the vaults of the library. Nothing but empty paper skin and the desperate sound of breathing. How she wishes to silence that ragged noise. No strength here. And then… Epiphany. There’s a lonely x-acto knife hidden, like her. But in an open locker across campus.

Posted By Bethany On 11.02.2011 @ 7:22 am

It shouldn’t be guilty.

Posted By Bethany On 10.31.2011 @ 5:17 pm

I don’t know that I could ever articulate the meaning of this word in 60 seconds.

Posted By Bethany On 10.30.2011 @ 7:53 pm

She’s a vegetarian. A chicken caesar salad is a sacrificed chicken, a ribeye steak is a sacrificed cow, and a jello mousse parfait is a sacrificed horse. She sees the speckled pinto through the light spots in his eyes, and takes a bite. It’s a first date: so she’ll sacrifice.

Posted By Bethany On 10.29.2011 @ 7:33 pm

His little fist curls around the yellow macaroni crayola crayon. His wrist twitches and slips. His curves are long and careful, his turns are quick and sloppy. But it’s his name, and so it’s beautiful.

Posted By Bethany On 10.26.2011 @ 1:18 pm

Potato and peas and chicken and cream of something. I schloop you in the crust and bake. You are my pie.

Posted By Bethany On 10.25.2011 @ 12:41 pm

I want my automatic to be my thought-through, my genuine, my beautiful. I want it to flow right out with every cog-turn and every lever-pull. I want my automatic to be life.

Posted By Bethany On 10.24.2011 @ 10:06 pm

I hear your heartbeat when my ear is in the nook of your arm.

Posted By Bethany On 10.22.2011 @ 10:06 pm

Compassion, a strange practically foreign word. In our harsh, over exaggerated world, where does compassion lie? In our hearts? Minds? What is compassion but false love and admiration. Maybe that’s why our society is filled with hate. Hate is real. Hate cannot lie. We are hate.

Posted By Bethany On 10.13.2011 @ 5:19 pm

Iron in the blood is crucial for oxygen transportation. Hemoglobin is an iron based part of the blood cell that allows oxygen to be stored. The iron age is also an archaeological time period. Most of the Old Testament monarchial stories take place in the iron age.

Posted By Bethany On 10.10.2011 @ 9:16 am

You’re a librarian. You love Shakespeare and you’re in the honors college. You push your glasses up your nose. But somehow, you manage weight lifting jargon. How are you iron brain/iron arms?

Posted By Bethany On 10.10.2011 @ 8:58 am

its a headache to find it all out, i peruse the clues you’ve left me with onyl minor breaks in my painstakign methodology, people poke their noses and pipes in through a cracked door and watch me sleep, a laugh at a white valentine bear, minor cute noises at love

Posted By Bethany On 10.08.2011 @ 1:06 pm

Your ways are not my ways. My words are not your words. So I hand you the line and you’ll reach it higher until I see it straight up and down. You’ll hold my plumb line, and I’ll know to climb and to rest towards You. Always looking up and seeing your face, consistently glancing down to know that up is worth the more of You and lack of me.

Posted By Bethany On 10.05.2011 @ 9:49 am

Your ways are not my ways. My words are not your words. So I hand you the line and you’ll reach it higher until I see it straight up and down. You’ll hold my plumb line, and I’ll know to climb and to rest towards You.

Posted By Bethany On 10.05.2011 @ 9:48 am

You suppose you know me. You watch me from your coffee mug mist and shy safety distance and daydream speculation. Until you’ve taken my hand, though, you only know my back.

Posted By Bethany On 10.03.2011 @ 3:16 pm

I don’t know you, but I suppose you know me. You watch me from your coffee mug, from your distance, from your familiarity of me. I suppose you must know me pretty well. My back knows you.

Posted By Bethany On 10.03.2011 @ 3:01 pm

She remembers the sick-sweet edge stroking her smooth skin with its razor sharp promises.

So sweet. So sick.

They never did come true.

Posted By Bethany On 10.03.2011 @ 9:33 am

Half. The obvious choice would be to write about love. The other half, the soul mate. Or more likely…the one who halved my heart. But that’s only half of the truth, isn’t it? How can we depend on being completed by another… By a boy, perhaps… if we are not even whole in ourselves? How can you love him if you don’t love You? You can’t. All these people. Broken in pieces by some other lonely soul… But of course he tore you apart; all he to do was press his fingers against your already cracked surface for you to shatter. You people. You lonely, lonely people. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you were only told half of the truth. Do you know why? Because I am you. Half.

Posted By Bethany On 09.29.2011 @ 8:21 pm

I didn’t have any evidence to prove the case of the missing shoe. you see, i had tried to find it but i had no idea who had taken it.

Posted By bethany On 09.27.2011 @ 10:11 am

I am pressed but not crushed persecuted but not abandoned. I love the pressing for it thins me out… creates me into something more. I hate it because I am not fond of pressure. But I am always better for it. Always. I am pressed, but not crushed. Pressed. I am pressed for any more thoughts on this discussion.

Posted By Bethany On 09.25.2011 @ 6:14 pm

The future, my path. Thomas. Dad, my feelings. The future. How I seem to people. The future. The past. How the past affects me now. Where am I going? Where are you going? I can’t wait for you, but I can’t seem to catch up either. Are we going anywhere together? The future. If you’ll actually be there. Yes. Concern.

Posted By Bethany On 09.18.2011 @ 11:38 am

they traded anger with each other, darts thrown from their mouths, aiming for the chest- not noticing until afterward the blood pooling from their own hearts.

Posted By bethany On 09.13.2011 @ 8:42 am

bars. iron rods bolted into our brains. or the green walls surrounding a room full of hopelessness. bars. they speak to our insecurities. or quietly whisper seductive terror into a mind otherwise lost.

Posted By bethany On 09.08.2011 @ 10:06 pm

a world of insects rotates, revolving in the black sky- full of stars; their light reflecting off our beetle backs that hide the wings so few of us find.

Posted By bethany On 09.07.2011 @ 10:34 am

An ant, under a foot. But am I the ant, or am I the foot?

Posted By bethany On 09.05.2011 @ 4:42 pm

All these unhappy people. ________Poisoned________ by this treacherous world- or perhaps only the people dwelling in it; hiding in the secret caves right in front of everyone’s oblivious nose.

Posted By bethany On 08.21.2011 @ 9:07 pm