Saturday party quickwrite

clear eyes, a sort of haze in the room from the heat, carried away outside through the open window, no screen attached. it opens into the air, the darkness and the orange street lamps. trees and insect sounds. outside there is a full moon, bright and shining, round and white. the air is cool and it comes into the room. inside is us. the dirty carpets and smudges, the bottles and cups, mismatched, covering so many inches of the table, of the counter, of some parts of the floor. it is dark and the music hums, there is not a lot of bass. the song changes and no one notices. there is a sort of haze, a warmth, now flowing outside through the open window on the right. outside there is a soccer field. the grass is green. inside some of us stand, some cheeks ruddy, some as they have always been. some drooping eyes, draping arms. I feel like it is time to go. I go around, touching each one, touching. a light touch, an embrace, warm. we all smile, it is dark. the light is coming from the laptop screen and the moon, the orange lamps outside that shine onto the green grass. I touch, it is warm and solid, and it feels good. I want to get closer, but the touch is fleeting, fleeting and light. it feels good. I like the feeling, of warmth and skin and muscle. I like reaching up, reaching, arms touch the neck for a little bit, cheeks near. the touch is fleeting, and the parting even more so. soon I am outside where it is quiet and hollow and cool. some insect sounds. the moon.

I wrote this while in class

It's been a long time since she has been home, and this is what she was thinking as she walked down the streets. Often, now, she saw his face in the store windows, reflected a million times back at her own at various angles, like a kaleidoscope. Or funhouse mirrors. It was no different here, although he had never set foot in this town. He'd always said he would come with her, that he'd walk the streets of her childhood and that they'd create new, adjacent memories, but, well, that wasn't going to happen now. Now all that was going to create memories with her was his ghost, his frozen face and his beautiful eyes peering at her soul from every store front. (Here's us: me and some mannequin, matching summer hats.) Maybe she'd go snorkeling off the coast. Maybe he'd be there too.

It's been a long time since she has been home, and it hasn't changed a bit. Not on the outside, at least. There was the same liquor store with the burnt out neon sign, the old white van parked in front of the laundromat. The mailbox that was a miniature version of its house. The avocado home with the brown trimming that marked the corner of her street.

She paused in front of the front door, glancing from the lock to her purse, which she realized contained no corresponding key. She rang the bell.

"Oh, baby," cried her mother, swinging the door open as if she had been waiting on the other side all along. "Oh, Cece," she said as she wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her close.

Last night he slept

Last night he slept and he dreamt of trees. Of streetlamps and sidewalk cracks and the little weeds that grew in between. Of wooden cars and pink wheels and dusty bricks that grew eyes, then more eyes. He swam through oceans and space, a fitful sleep in which every turn was a thousand miles and every flip plunged him into new worlds, through glass and silk and mazes with never-ending subways. When the cool air hit him, he was standing on a cliff in the fall, then winter, and his sweat drops evaporated while his skin cells waved goodbye. The fan buzzed, and he heard the synchronized humming of reliable machines, beeping and lights. Silver equipment that fell away to sand, and dirt, and stones. Ceramic tiles. He fell in love with birds, huge birds that shaded the ground with their wings. Ice cream. A pretty girl who hid her face and blended into the ocean. A buzz, some ugly sounds. He heard what he thought were footsteps, stomping, thumping, bombs. Ah, construction. There is construction outside. An alarm. He left as quickly as he went through his worlds, his dream but a sliver of water vanishing down an impossibly large funnel, until nothing was left but some steam, some smells. Ah, the wall. There are the bumps on the white wall, the tack-sized hole that had always been there. The window, the trees outside, the sun. This morning he woke up, got dressed, and left.

The streets of Bordeaux

Wet streets soak my shoes but sparkle
underneath the hanging lamps,
the golden globes that glitter white and bright and joy
and hang next to messages lit up between
buildings of stone which glow too,
reflecting thousands of little lights, so proud
next to the trees encased in green
halfway up the trunk so they look like glowing
broccoli stalks floating in
the air is crisp and cold
and mittens and scarves and waterproof hats and
it's beginning to feel a little bit festive
a little bit like Christmas
a little bit like
soon.

B.F. - Falling

And here I was again, on top of the world.

My favorite place to be.

The air up here is so cold, and the wind whips furiously against my back, threatening to push me over and into the sky. I shiver. The cold concrete and metal of the scraper's edge pushes into my thighs while the rest of my legs dangle over the edge. The juxtaposition of my small feet so large against the background of the city tops, the city floors, give me a chilling feeling of nonexistence.

Does anyone ever look up?

It seems a hopeless cause. The sky is dimming, and I can barely see a soul around. Would I be able to, even if there was one? I am so high up. Any person walking around would be no more than a speck to my eyes.

Another gust blows through me, piercing my bones despite the protective layers of outerwear I have on. My numbing hands grip the edge harder. I imagine my knuckles are white underneath the gloves. I should probably move away; doubtless my little body would be strewn about the pipes, ladders, and rafters most horrifically, without ever touching the ground, should I lose my hold.

Somehow, though, I want to let go.

The tip over seems so slight and easy. I feel insignificant enough to be carried by the wind. I've always wanted to fly, to soar over tops of buildings, to jump off cliffs only to come to a breathtakingly sudden halt just before being engulfed by the sea.

My fingers flex while I watch the empty bottom, metal webs waiting to catch me.

A slight shift of weight, that's all it takes.

After all, falling is the same as flying, only maybe with less control.

***

I don't do it. Shivering, I walk through empty, gray streets, where every step presses back firmly against my feet. I want to cry. I always knew it was impossible, of course. Flying is for hollow bones and feathered wings, for the thin film of those petals beating against strong backs. I have not slept for days, and my weary mind must have had delusions of grandeur.

The chill blows straight through me, and I feel my legs giving way.

"Well," I tell myself, breathing out a little cloud of moist air. I guess it's okay now.

It has to be okay, because now I fall.

A short distance of five feet while my knees crumple and where my feet never leave the ground.