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The man drops a yellowed scroll into her hand, watery eyes speaking volumes more than the rusted voice that commands her to go forth and begin. The seriousness of it all begs her heart to throb in her chest, her feet to carry her miles away, but instead, she lets the ancient paper unravel, lets the words whisper their story in her ear.

She listens.

And she does not like what she hears.

Maybe the man is still there when she turns. Maybe he isn’t. But when the door slams and the story crumbles into dust on the steps, someone sighs, long and tired and done with the youth.

Posted By Laura On 05.22.2012 @ 7:36 am

Somehow, it was always her job. Not that she really minded, but nonetheless, it was the principle of the whole thing. “Hello, this is Laura.” They all wanted him there, didn’t they? Shouldn’t someone else be subjected to this? “I’m a friend of Tommy’s from school.” At least his mother sounded nice. She supposes it could be far more awkward than this. “May I speak with him, please?” And by the time that monotone voice finally comes through the other end, she swears she’ll get his cell phone number at school the next day. “Tommy! What are you doing tonight?” She never does.

Posted By Laura On 05.20.2012 @ 12:33 pm

Every life is a pile of good things and bad things, he told her. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things either.

And in that moment, she supposes it was the right thing to say. But now, now that she was alone and he was gone, maybe it didn’t quite work so well. All she could make out was one pile, one ominous mess of the good and the bad stacked precariously high.

Perhaps she could sort through it. The top, the outside, those would be safe. Soft memories and quaint trains of thought she kept upfront to hide behind. But the bottom, the buried, those were less friendly.

So she climbs to the peak and sits on the mass of sugar-coated dynamite, buying her time until someone else makes her topple.

Posted By Laura On 05.19.2012 @ 8:35 pm

Bad. It was very, very bad.

(She would come to hate having to use such a short, base word for the tragedy she saw that day. But it was the word that passed through lips easiest, burnt her tongue the least as she gathered the broken pieces into her arms and tried not to cut herself on them.

Yes, ‘bad’ held enough weight to pull her through the reconstruction, the painfully tedious assembly of splintered smiles and fallen words. It was enough to put her on two feet in the morning, every morning. ‘Bad’ was the ever-present motivator, a promise. For what exactly, she wasn’t sure.)

Posted By Laura On 05.18.2012 @ 8:08 pm

She much preferred writing to anything else. There is always the eraser for the pencil, the backspace key for the computer, or even the whiteout for a pen. But speaking? Acting?

Her words will hang in the air no matter what kind of butterfly net she uses to pull at them. What she does will be replayed in more than one memory, more than one time. All the “I’m sorry”s and “Forgive me”s in the world can’t a single word, a single step back.

So she hides in the safety of words, with one finger on the backspace key and a hand over her eyes.

Posted By Laura On 05.17.2012 @ 2:04 pm

She’s through the door, shoes toed off and keys on the counter by the time she’s noticed the inadequate lighting and the bad music and the faint smell of cheap flowers.

And she should probably pretend to find the gesture romantic for his sake, but there’s something twisted in spending her life with a man who still thinks she prefers roses to daffodils.

So when he asks her why she’s laughing, she just smiles and shakes her head and wonders if ever even tried to figure her out.

Posted By Laura On 05.16.2012 @ 5:41 pm

romance novels tend to have love triangles in them. They also like to have half-naked women and men with long hair, preferably on horseback, decorating their covers. I wonder what those models think about their careers and life decisions. Maybe they should’ve said no to drugs.

Posted By Laura On 05.16.2012 @ 11:28 am

She laughs and it’s the sound of wind chimes, soft and delicate to match the fog that is her form. It’s startling, then, when what he guesses is a hand reaches out and raps against his chest, a tinny sound echoing about his rib cage.

“Open up,” the breeze whispers. “You might be surprised.”

So he tugs at his skin to find a hatch that he’d never seen before, to reveal a mass of cogs and gears he never took note of, to fuel an engine he swore didn’t exist.

There’s another sound, a voice, but when he looks up, she’s gone. And when he looks back down, so is the engine.

Posted By Laura On 05.15.2012 @ 2:20 pm

Most don’t like the insignificance. They aren’t satisfied with the quiet, the calm, the simple. The leaves and the twigs and the dirt offer little solace to a mind dreaming of white clouds and infinite horizons.

But then you see the owners of the sky, the tired faces and the worn shoe soles, and maybe being an insect isn’t such a bad thing.

Posted By Laura On 05.14.2012 @ 12:10 pm

“This is a room full of crazy people,” he says, then points. “And she’s the leader.”

And her immediate response is negative. Narrowed eyes, furrowed brow, scathing rebuke. But as soon as the words hit the air, she stops, and she looks.

And you know what? They really are crazy people. Wonderful, beautiful crazy people, and she’s one of them. Being in charge? Not so bad.

“Wait. No. Disregard that.”

Posted By Laura On 05.13.2012 @ 11:51 am

Let me have it. No. Just give it to me. It’s mine. But you’re mine. Progressive thinker, aren’t you? You know what I mean. Do I? Please. Let me. What if you don’t give it back? I’ll give it back. How do I know? Trust me. … Please.

So she splays her fingers and he laces his with hers and lending a hand has never seemed so wonderfully satisfying.

Posted By Laura On 05.12.2012 @ 4:06 pm

You weren’t supposed to see that. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

What’s done is done. What’s gone is gone.

But sometimes the things that are done and the things that have gone are the things that still a heart and halt a hand and keep you away from me.

Posted By Laura On 05.11.2012 @ 3:57 pm

It hurt to think that there could be more. That there was more. That there was potential that went unused and unrealized, that we were capable of the impossible. Instead we lie in shambles, crawling, limping when we should be sprinting, flying. Primitive, that’s their excuse. Pathetic, that’s mine.

Posted By Laura On 05.10.2012 @ 7:54 pm

Your words leak onto the floor and stay there, a thick puddle to wade through. They are heavy and short and simple. I don’t want to pick them up. I don’t have to.

I like challenges.

You are not one.

Posted By Laura On 05.10.2012 @ 1:56 pm

She looks up at you and smiles, and it makes you blush, look down at the floor, trip over your words.

I can’t make your cheeks that shade of pink. I can’t make your head turn direction. I can’t steal the words from your lips. But maybe I could tomorrow.

Posted By Laura On 05.09.2012 @ 12:36 pm

Not the lengthy prose you try to impress me with. No. Instead, the bare minimum. Just the facts. A language that only makes sense in your head, foreign to mine. Between the abbreviations and the chicken scratch, you become human. I like that.

Posted By Laura On 05.08.2012 @ 6:17 pm

It tasted green. A fresh smooth taste. Fresh like spring water as it must have been recently rinsed. fresh like sunshine as it was raw and not cooked and recently had been out soaking up the afternoon rays. It tasted smooth, not having been dredged through any other seasonings. It was joyous to savor.

These sensations were enhanced in the knowing that all of this tasting confirmed the pure goodness that it was bringing to my life. it was not only helping me to enjoy the moment, but the nutrients hiding behind each taste sensation were bringing health and wholeness to my general well being.

I am grateful for this experience.

Posted By Laura On 05.07.2012 @ 8:20 pm

My mouth went dry and I swallowed my tongue, and everything tasted like sand and salt and sadness. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat again, just sit here and prod at my insides.

Posted By Laura On 05.07.2012 @ 8:05 pm

She felt their gazes on her back, burning into her, judging her for things she’d done, things they thought she’d done, and things that she didn’t even know about. Nothing made sense anymore.

And he was dead.

The pain was too much, and she was succumbing to it.

Posted By Laura On 04.23.2012 @ 5:02 pm

His screaming voice rattles the sleeping household with two severely hungover women and a teenage girl who hasn’t seemed to get nearly enough sleep. “Pancakes! Get up and let’s get breakfast!” I sigh in my pillow as this fifty year old man throws a temper tantrum like a child, disturbing the little sleep I received.

Posted By Laura On 04.14.2012 @ 10:31 am

Nouris. Idk what nourish means. Maybe it’s something that has to do with food. Or it is smething carasteristic. My grammar sucks, so does my english. In this text will be alot of faults, mistakes. But i don’t care. I tought you had different words on here, but obviously not. Why do I use long words? Idk how to write lol.

Posted By Laura On 04.12.2012 @ 2:57 pm

How many pins do we have in the couch cushions? I remember they fell there last week, but I’m pretty sure one just poked me. Still, it’s kind of nice to know that not everything is perfect in my small and very organized apartment. Maybe I’ll leave the pins there for a while.

Posted By Laura On 04.10.2012 @ 1:31 am

I go back to the days of sprinkler summers, snow ball fights in the winter, easter egg hunts in spring, and climbing the branches of the oak tree in the park. We would sit in the tree for hours, telling secrets. As I return, I see our initials carved into the tree with an infinity sign under it. What happened to our infinity friendship?

Posted By Laura On 04.08.2012 @ 8:19 am

Willful was love when I was a teenager. I didn’t meet your father until I was at least thirty, which was a problem to my friends. I needed to find love or else I was unexpected. Though, even though I was so anxious for teen love, I wish I had never met your father. Love simply isn’t worth it anymore.

Posted By Laura On 04.05.2012 @ 3:58 pm

Not a clue what willful really means, but I think it has something to do with God and how we have free will and how with that we are willful. but i’m probably way off, but thats okay because I still love God and he will love me no matter what.

Posted By Laura On 04.05.2012 @ 3:20 pm

His brunette hair covered his enigmatic eyes like a hood, yet I did not mind. That little thing made me fall deeper in love with him each day. I admire him, faults in all. But, this sweet guy I have not known long. And my theory is that I shall never love someone if they don’t love me back. Does he love me?

Posted By Laura On 04.04.2012 @ 4:47 pm

The blaze upon my home continued to spread. I could hear the screams of terror from my outside position. As I walk away from my land, the screams ring throughout my ears like a never ending string of memories that are constantly haunting me. For I have set fire to my family.

Posted By Laura On 04.01.2012 @ 11:57 am

He thought he could simply brush her off, tell her that it wasn’t like it used to be, and she would crash out of his life the way she had crashed into it. But it would never be like that. She knew the secret weapon, the sure fire way to capture his soul all over again. After a mischevious glint into the mirror, she donned the black stiletto shoes and clip-clopped to his office. Just the sound alone almost brought him to his knees. And once she’d turned the corner and gazed at him in the way that only she, really, did, he knew he wouldn’t be letting her go again.

Posted By Laura On 03.29.2012 @ 3:30 am

I was captured by his gorgeous warm eyes. By the way he strut down the hallway with amazing grace. His appearance too good to be true, just like his words. I would have done anything to be in the presence of the man I dreamed of marrying.

Posted By Laura On 03.28.2012 @ 3:57 pm

Maisie had a dream catcher above her bed, it was the therapist’s idea. For six years old her dreams were fairly complex, sophisticated even, but always with an evil finale that far outstretched the most sinister horror films.

Posted By Laura On 03.27.2012 @ 11:50 pm