merelyse
I used to beg my mom to cut my apple in half across the equator, just to see the star inside - the seeds span out in five points. It was like a hidden secret. A celestial mcintosh. You'd never know if you cut it from the top to the bottom.
A simple man approached me and asked a simple question. What makes you happy? I had no answer at the time. What makes me happy?
I went to the general store and I handed him a two-penny piece. He asked what I wanted. I asked him what I could get for two cents. He said he'd give me my piece back if I told him a joke. I said it was nice outside.
At the forefront of my mind I found a shitstorm of anxiety, depression, and caffeine deprivation. I was strung out on sleeplessness. Overworked, underpaid refinement in my mid twenties. In the background, crept a seeping paranoia that I would live to old age.
The dusty smell of worn leather and sweet hay hung like dust motes drifting through a streak of sunlight. I heard nothing at first, then a creaking of boards and heavy sigh behind the walls of his stall. He stuck his head out from behind, and I realized how alarming his size was once you got close. He was built to work, pull heavy loads, a giant in proportions. He was an animal whose potential power and destructive force made his peaceful nature surprising. His name was burned into a block of wood hung on the door - Senator.
She cradled the metal pitcher in her hand, the milk shushing up the sides in rising hot froth which lifted over the mug, a small pool of black pitch and sweet crema, deftly swept up into a marbled velvet foam.
He's so shallow if you tried to delve into the seas of his subconscious you would break your neck.
The minute she picked up and I heard her voice, I started to cry. I tried to hide my sobs behind my hand and moved the receiver so she wouldn't hear. When all she heard was silence, she said my name. She knew it was me, she knew the number. When I had dialed the number, the tonal beeps of each number as I pressed them evoked my tenacious sense of homesickness. Mom, I was calling my mom, crying on the phone on the floor of my apartment. A 25-year-old crying on the phone to her mother, because I just wanted to come home.
Promises are so ephemeral. Will it be kept? Promises, made be someone who is true-of-heart, are like gold.
The last part of the application asked for references. I had never had a job before, and it was only making burgers. They would never call them anyway. I gave them three names...Mr. Shen Anigan, Ms. May Ham, and Ms. Kay Ahs.
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writing since 2011 · 116 entries · 112 days shown up
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