Patience - 266 Words
Lindsey Thompson
I’m sitting outside the blanket, watching you breathe slowly and with much exhaustion hidden in the seams, and I smile despite myself. You sleep so peacefully, like there is no demand, no demon waiting to seize your time and mind when you wake. The bed creaks when I leave, but you continue to wander in dark slumber. I grab my things and begin the journey back to my town, my life, leaving ours behind with you in the bed. Two-year-old ghosts sing false melodies to me, promising me that I can escape, change course, turn this god-forsaken car around and…
…I don’t know. Continue pretending until it isn’t pretend anymore.
I’m still driving straight, frantically flipping through the radio stations, looking for something foreign and safe. Just something to get me to my life, my post, my job. Something until I can get busy and I get things done. Set my mind to motion and design and I’ll make it to the end of the day.
I just want to be home. I want to know where home is. I don’t want to be stuck sitting on a wooden bench in a concert hall listening to possibilities from pianos and your whispers over and over like the cries of a dog I’m leaving behind. I’m tired of maybes; I don’t have the patience to eat and drink and be merry acting like we’ll never see a day where we never see each other again, knowing that that day is bearing down on us with bared teeth and a menacing grin.
Why can’t you be home?
Back Broke - The Swell Season
Showing posts with label Lindsey Thompson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lindsey Thompson. Show all posts
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Pseudo-Science
Involved - 266 Words
Lindsey Thompson
She told me not to get involved. She warned me, pleaded with me, to just drop it. She could handle it, she said.
She should know that I never listen.
It’s in my nature to pursue leads, find secrets, uncover agendas, and bring the scum out of the shadows and into the limelight. I’m no hero for justice; don’t get me wrong there. I’m no do-gooder, no cop, no detective…well, not a legal one anyway. It’s about the challenge, about the game. I’m in it for the hunt, for the kill, for the thrill of the metaphoric blood on my hypothetical fangs. That these villains chose my girlfriend as a target is just icing on the cake, an unfortunate addition to my haste and the fury of my vengeance.
It starts with some basic internet searches, for vague outlines, scanning for screaming details of motive. They are easy enough to find; three clicks and I’m staring at the pixilated photograph of two of her former coworkers. Bingo. These two look just sleazy enough to frame her for larceny and grab the credit for her breakthrough discovery, and yet just professional enough that no one would question their ability to produce real results. I smile and crack my knuckles, then go to work.
In minutes I’ve secured connections to their personal email addresses. In a couple of hours, I have hacked into their personal computers (Windows, what a joke). The communications are there, the files, her data, even a couple of pictures pre-editing. They were stupid to keep those. I cannot wait to make their lives hell.
Lindsey Thompson
She told me not to get involved. She warned me, pleaded with me, to just drop it. She could handle it, she said.
She should know that I never listen.
It’s in my nature to pursue leads, find secrets, uncover agendas, and bring the scum out of the shadows and into the limelight. I’m no hero for justice; don’t get me wrong there. I’m no do-gooder, no cop, no detective…well, not a legal one anyway. It’s about the challenge, about the game. I’m in it for the hunt, for the kill, for the thrill of the metaphoric blood on my hypothetical fangs. That these villains chose my girlfriend as a target is just icing on the cake, an unfortunate addition to my haste and the fury of my vengeance.
It starts with some basic internet searches, for vague outlines, scanning for screaming details of motive. They are easy enough to find; three clicks and I’m staring at the pixilated photograph of two of her former coworkers. Bingo. These two look just sleazy enough to frame her for larceny and grab the credit for her breakthrough discovery, and yet just professional enough that no one would question their ability to produce real results. I smile and crack my knuckles, then go to work.
In minutes I’ve secured connections to their personal email addresses. In a couple of hours, I have hacked into their personal computers (Windows, what a joke). The communications are there, the files, her data, even a couple of pictures pre-editing. They were stupid to keep those. I cannot wait to make their lives hell.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Cat-and-Hats Lady
Hats - 196 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Mrs. Everson had a strange habit, as most middle-aged-nearing-old-aged women do who live alone with three dogs and a kitten. And, as is the case with most habit-ridden older women, it was a collection. With each morning, she would feed her dogs, cuddle with her kitten, try to call her son and daughter-in-law (who would pretend to be too busy or not awake yet but who had one child in kindergarten so they really should answer the phone when grandma calls because she knows they are awake and both work from home), and then grab a hat and be out the door.
Now, none of this seems strange, until you watched her grab her hat. For Mrs. Everson owned no less than 137 hats. Her spare bedroom was a monument to her collection, with three hat stands filled and hangers on the wall for her prized pieces. Her hats were not cheap, either. One of them was Charlie Chaplain’s back-up hat (just as prestigious, she argues, but much less expensive), and another was the fifth fedora ever produced. Make fun of her hats, and you would never again receive a tasty, barely-legal gingerbread cookies.
Lindsey Thompson
Mrs. Everson had a strange habit, as most middle-aged-nearing-old-aged women do who live alone with three dogs and a kitten. And, as is the case with most habit-ridden older women, it was a collection. With each morning, she would feed her dogs, cuddle with her kitten, try to call her son and daughter-in-law (who would pretend to be too busy or not awake yet but who had one child in kindergarten so they really should answer the phone when grandma calls because she knows they are awake and both work from home), and then grab a hat and be out the door.
Now, none of this seems strange, until you watched her grab her hat. For Mrs. Everson owned no less than 137 hats. Her spare bedroom was a monument to her collection, with three hat stands filled and hangers on the wall for her prized pieces. Her hats were not cheap, either. One of them was Charlie Chaplain’s back-up hat (just as prestigious, she argues, but much less expensive), and another was the fifth fedora ever produced. Make fun of her hats, and you would never again receive a tasty, barely-legal gingerbread cookies.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Interview Number 13
Lively - 210 Words
Lindsey Thompson
I don’t have a lot to say about Kathleen. I mean, yes, we went to the same school since kindergarten, and she seemed like a normal kid. She was…lively, that’s the word. She was full to bursting with perfect childlike wonder and energy. She was a magnet for the downtrodden people of elementary school. I was a fairly average kid, with my own group of friends and few hard times, so I was rarely around her.
There was this one moment, in the third grade, when I had just found out that my parents were getting a divorce. I was crying, and a couple other boys were making fun of me, and one of them punched me in the eye. Suddenly there was Kathleen, big as a mother bear and angrier than I’d ever seen her. Chided, the boys moved off to other victims, and she wiped the tears from my eyes. All the pain from the punch was gone, and there was never any swelling. I asked her how she did it, and she grinned mischievously and whispered, “I’m an angel. But don’t tell!” Then she skipped away. I didn’t really speak to her much after that. Still regret it.
Everyone at her funeral had a story like that.
Lindsey Thompson
I don’t have a lot to say about Kathleen. I mean, yes, we went to the same school since kindergarten, and she seemed like a normal kid. She was…lively, that’s the word. She was full to bursting with perfect childlike wonder and energy. She was a magnet for the downtrodden people of elementary school. I was a fairly average kid, with my own group of friends and few hard times, so I was rarely around her.
There was this one moment, in the third grade, when I had just found out that my parents were getting a divorce. I was crying, and a couple other boys were making fun of me, and one of them punched me in the eye. Suddenly there was Kathleen, big as a mother bear and angrier than I’d ever seen her. Chided, the boys moved off to other victims, and she wiped the tears from my eyes. All the pain from the punch was gone, and there was never any swelling. I asked her how she did it, and she grinned mischievously and whispered, “I’m an angel. But don’t tell!” Then she skipped away. I didn’t really speak to her much after that. Still regret it.
Everyone at her funeral had a story like that.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Pacific
Overjoyed - 199 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Darkness poured into the streets like water from a flood. I walked silently, soberly forward toward the lamppost up ahead, waiting for a swift breeze to sweep me home. A couple stumbled out of a bar, laughing and tumbling into a cab. She was far from overjoyed, but he didn’t seem to notice anything but her corkscrew smile. I turned my collar up and looked to the west, where the last rays were leaving Seattle and purging the depths of the Pacific. I could see you coming over that horizon, hands in pockets with a smirk to light the town on fire.
I lit a cigarette against my better judgment. Funny, that you quit just in time for me to begin. Balance even across oceans. I felt the nicotine slow my mind, caress my skin. The lights changed, and I crossed the street, heading south, heading back. You met me at the corner near the bar where the couple tumbled and where we met. I heard the yelping calls of drunken teens signaling to their kind, claiming the night as something new, something theirs. You saw my furrowed brow and kissed it, taking my hand and walking me home.
Lindsey Thompson
Darkness poured into the streets like water from a flood. I walked silently, soberly forward toward the lamppost up ahead, waiting for a swift breeze to sweep me home. A couple stumbled out of a bar, laughing and tumbling into a cab. She was far from overjoyed, but he didn’t seem to notice anything but her corkscrew smile. I turned my collar up and looked to the west, where the last rays were leaving Seattle and purging the depths of the Pacific. I could see you coming over that horizon, hands in pockets with a smirk to light the town on fire.
I lit a cigarette against my better judgment. Funny, that you quit just in time for me to begin. Balance even across oceans. I felt the nicotine slow my mind, caress my skin. The lights changed, and I crossed the street, heading south, heading back. You met me at the corner near the bar where the couple tumbled and where we met. I heard the yelping calls of drunken teens signaling to their kind, claiming the night as something new, something theirs. You saw my furrowed brow and kissed it, taking my hand and walking me home.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Relic
Stood - 138 Words
Lindsey Thompson
The ancient cathedral stood stoic, somber, aware of the demolition crews amassing around its archaic metal fence. They, like insects, like termites, crawled forth from their vehicles stationed in parking lots, roping off sections and placing explosives into the stone their teeth could not cut.
Soon, the detonation would shatter the stained glass portraits of God’s Son born, betrayed, destroyed, reborn, these prism-windows’ revelation of hope. Gone would be the walls that survived world wars, empires, people, weather, time. Wood would splinter, the cross would crack like the Holy of Holies, rip like the curtain between man and Heaven.
And for what? Resources under the soil, access across the land the cathedral occupied. No one saw a need to keep another relic of an old religion long passed from memory. So the cathedral groaned as the ground exploded.
Lindsey Thompson
The ancient cathedral stood stoic, somber, aware of the demolition crews amassing around its archaic metal fence. They, like insects, like termites, crawled forth from their vehicles stationed in parking lots, roping off sections and placing explosives into the stone their teeth could not cut.
Soon, the detonation would shatter the stained glass portraits of God’s Son born, betrayed, destroyed, reborn, these prism-windows’ revelation of hope. Gone would be the walls that survived world wars, empires, people, weather, time. Wood would splinter, the cross would crack like the Holy of Holies, rip like the curtain between man and Heaven.
And for what? Resources under the soil, access across the land the cathedral occupied. No one saw a need to keep another relic of an old religion long passed from memory. So the cathedral groaned as the ground exploded.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Love Is Watching Someone Die
Probable - 323 words
Lindsey Thompson
The sirens called, as they always did, around noon on Wednesday, undulating between tritoned noise and a beautiful low breeze. They called forth bays and screams and yaps from the neighborhood, but this day the family noticed that Kurt made no motion to join his kin. Where once he would tilt his nimble head and throw back his ears to bid the wailing whistles to stop, he now glanced at the sky despondently, with his head tucked between his paws, and sighed in the summer sun. The mother looked with concern upon the hound’s aging body, curled in the warmth he could barely generate himself. The father wondered if the vet could ease the passing—trouble was, he was not ill exactly.
The probable cause of his depression, though up for much speculation, was unknown. Perhaps it was loneliness, that he should see his final days without the company of his companion, a terrier who had been hit by a car on a runaway journey some two months ago. Perhaps it was merely exhaustion, with years stripping his once perfected figure of its sheen and its use.
But had Kurt the tongue and language to communicate to the family, he would pose only one question, “When is Lisa coming home?” His only love, his master, had moved to Seattle, a young woman just recently married. Though she had been away at college for four and a half years, something inside Kurt knew that this place—his yard, his building, his family—was still her home. She would visit and scratch his ears just the way he liked, rub the brim of his nose—she was the only one who knew to do that. Yet, the last time she came to see him, she smelled different. She felt different. She wore new metal, smelled of a new person, like a new person. And she felt far away.
He didn’t want to die away from her.
What Sarah Said - Death Cab For Cutie
Lindsey Thompson
The sirens called, as they always did, around noon on Wednesday, undulating between tritoned noise and a beautiful low breeze. They called forth bays and screams and yaps from the neighborhood, but this day the family noticed that Kurt made no motion to join his kin. Where once he would tilt his nimble head and throw back his ears to bid the wailing whistles to stop, he now glanced at the sky despondently, with his head tucked between his paws, and sighed in the summer sun. The mother looked with concern upon the hound’s aging body, curled in the warmth he could barely generate himself. The father wondered if the vet could ease the passing—trouble was, he was not ill exactly.
The probable cause of his depression, though up for much speculation, was unknown. Perhaps it was loneliness, that he should see his final days without the company of his companion, a terrier who had been hit by a car on a runaway journey some two months ago. Perhaps it was merely exhaustion, with years stripping his once perfected figure of its sheen and its use.
But had Kurt the tongue and language to communicate to the family, he would pose only one question, “When is Lisa coming home?” His only love, his master, had moved to Seattle, a young woman just recently married. Though she had been away at college for four and a half years, something inside Kurt knew that this place—his yard, his building, his family—was still her home. She would visit and scratch his ears just the way he liked, rub the brim of his nose—she was the only one who knew to do that. Yet, the last time she came to see him, she smelled different. She felt different. She wore new metal, smelled of a new person, like a new person. And she felt far away.
He didn’t want to die away from her.
What Sarah Said - Death Cab For Cutie
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Recon at its Finest
Escape - 97 words
Lindsey Thompson
Glancing over the floor plan, he went through one final check: three security guards on the first floor, four on the second. He would have 37 seconds to make it to the secretary’s desk on the second floor before the shifts changed. In between guards, the video feeds' door was its most vulnerable. He’d then have 11 seconds to pick the lock before being spotted. If he succeeded, he’d quickly kill power to the feeds and move on. If he failed, he had one escape route—to feign mental instability and be thrown out the front door. Great.
Lindsey Thompson
Glancing over the floor plan, he went through one final check: three security guards on the first floor, four on the second. He would have 37 seconds to make it to the secretary’s desk on the second floor before the shifts changed. In between guards, the video feeds' door was its most vulnerable. He’d then have 11 seconds to pick the lock before being spotted. If he succeeded, he’d quickly kill power to the feeds and move on. If he failed, he had one escape route—to feign mental instability and be thrown out the front door. Great.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Derrida Still Lives
Near - 142 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Explosions In The Sky plays and I watch the past scroll by in brilliant photographs of where I once lived. Names and faces and places and bodies that used to be close seem so far removed from reality, only existing in my mind. I feel the crescendo and revel in how near you are.
I sleep alone, or with someone but still alone. And those people change from night to night but never offer any more comfort to my runaway skin. The shudders of the ceiling fan pull my brain back to summers waiting and waiting and waiting for nothing. Something out of nothing. Something secret about being secret.
You told me he was dead and I felt the years, the miles between the us I dream of and the us we are. Your eyes are warm and close as I weep.
I, the Acadian
Lindsey Thompson
Explosions In The Sky plays and I watch the past scroll by in brilliant photographs of where I once lived. Names and faces and places and bodies that used to be close seem so far removed from reality, only existing in my mind. I feel the crescendo and revel in how near you are.
I sleep alone, or with someone but still alone. And those people change from night to night but never offer any more comfort to my runaway skin. The shudders of the ceiling fan pull my brain back to summers waiting and waiting and waiting for nothing. Something out of nothing. Something secret about being secret.
You told me he was dead and I felt the years, the miles between the us I dream of and the us we are. Your eyes are warm and close as I weep.
I, the Acadian
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The River
Driven - 167 words
Lindsey Thompson
Her legs were crossed beneath the table, short skirt clinging to her smooth thighs as she tapped her free foot to the invisible rhythm of the music circulating unyieldingly in her mind. Her soft fingertips caressed the red patterns on slick cards. She licked her lower lip slightly, and smiled. She knew all the men envied how she touched the cards, looking wantingly at them and at her.
"Jamie," one of them called, "your bet."
She glanced once more at the flop, flicking her cards as though drumming her fingers. Her smile never faltered. "200," she replied. She casually tossed the chips in, like she didn't need them or miss them once they left her hand.
"You're bluffing." He repositioned his trucker hat, glaring at her innocent expression and pseudo-empty smile. "I'll call." The others followed suit.
Her smile widened. She knew they would underestimate her prowess. Male pride. Their Y chromosomes and lustful pockets made them fools. They were always driven to conquer.
"Here comes the river."
Lindsey Thompson
Her legs were crossed beneath the table, short skirt clinging to her smooth thighs as she tapped her free foot to the invisible rhythm of the music circulating unyieldingly in her mind. Her soft fingertips caressed the red patterns on slick cards. She licked her lower lip slightly, and smiled. She knew all the men envied how she touched the cards, looking wantingly at them and at her.
"Jamie," one of them called, "your bet."
She glanced once more at the flop, flicking her cards as though drumming her fingers. Her smile never faltered. "200," she replied. She casually tossed the chips in, like she didn't need them or miss them once they left her hand.
"You're bluffing." He repositioned his trucker hat, glaring at her innocent expression and pseudo-empty smile. "I'll call." The others followed suit.
Her smile widened. She knew they would underestimate her prowess. Male pride. Their Y chromosomes and lustful pockets made them fools. They were always driven to conquer.
"Here comes the river."
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Nuclear Explosions
Leash - 36 words
Lindsey Thompson
Fury crackles at the edge of my speech,
and i'm combusting in the core
from invasion and resonance.
Silence is your shield?
Coward.
Your word is law, and i'm tugging at my leash to know you.
Lindsey Thompson
Fury crackles at the edge of my speech,
and i'm combusting in the core
from invasion and resonance.
Silence is your shield?
Coward.
Your word is law, and i'm tugging at my leash to know you.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Bear. Bear with Coats.
Bear - 423 words
Lindsey Thompson
Almost all of my life, I wanted to be a bear. Not the type of bear that wanders in the wild, scratching at trees and roaring and sniffing and stuff. I wanted to be a sophisticated bear. I wanted to be a bear in a suit coat, with a monocle and a bow tie. I adored the thought of being a strong omnivore with fur and claws, able to sniff and hear from miles away people or parties I’d want to attend, but able to sit down and have a persuasive argument about William Shakespeare and his inability to actually have written the plays that bear his name……no pun intended. To be an animal that could shed the trappings of man and race across plains while maintaining the sense of propriety to hang his hat at the door and wash his paws before sitting down to dinner. A bear with a coat.
But, since bears have a coat already, I suppose it would be a bear with coats. Plural.
This dream buried its hooks into my brain after my friend Lisa doodled a bear cub in 5th grade. We were supposed to be working on math problems, and since neither of us understood or enjoyed math, she drew frequently. That day, she created a cute grizzly cub chewing on some paper with a speech bubble exclaiming, “Bears don’t need to do math.”
We both giggled to ourselves, making our teacher spin on her heels and glare us down for interrupting her tirade against the lost art of check writing. Why 5th graders needed to learn to write checks, I’ll never know. Turning back to my sheet of loose leaf, I began to doodle my response. Lisa was a great artist, but sketching was my passion. I released this haughty, proud-standing polar bear wearing a suit jacket over a smart vest and a paw on his chest, retorting, “SOME bears need math, and do it quite well.”
For whatever reason, that polar bear remained with me. Perhaps it’s my size, or lack thereof. Not only am I occasionally teased when I ask my fiancé for assistance reaching the top shelf, but I fear I am also not taken seriously when my passion surges to fill my tiny body and bubble over. I also wish I were better able to protect the things I love: my art from the thieves that came last August or my little brother from the bullies at school. No one would challenge a giant bear that spoke Latin. No one.
Lindsey Thompson
Almost all of my life, I wanted to be a bear. Not the type of bear that wanders in the wild, scratching at trees and roaring and sniffing and stuff. I wanted to be a sophisticated bear. I wanted to be a bear in a suit coat, with a monocle and a bow tie. I adored the thought of being a strong omnivore with fur and claws, able to sniff and hear from miles away people or parties I’d want to attend, but able to sit down and have a persuasive argument about William Shakespeare and his inability to actually have written the plays that bear his name……no pun intended. To be an animal that could shed the trappings of man and race across plains while maintaining the sense of propriety to hang his hat at the door and wash his paws before sitting down to dinner. A bear with a coat.
But, since bears have a coat already, I suppose it would be a bear with coats. Plural.
This dream buried its hooks into my brain after my friend Lisa doodled a bear cub in 5th grade. We were supposed to be working on math problems, and since neither of us understood or enjoyed math, she drew frequently. That day, she created a cute grizzly cub chewing on some paper with a speech bubble exclaiming, “Bears don’t need to do math.”
We both giggled to ourselves, making our teacher spin on her heels and glare us down for interrupting her tirade against the lost art of check writing. Why 5th graders needed to learn to write checks, I’ll never know. Turning back to my sheet of loose leaf, I began to doodle my response. Lisa was a great artist, but sketching was my passion. I released this haughty, proud-standing polar bear wearing a suit jacket over a smart vest and a paw on his chest, retorting, “SOME bears need math, and do it quite well.”
For whatever reason, that polar bear remained with me. Perhaps it’s my size, or lack thereof. Not only am I occasionally teased when I ask my fiancé for assistance reaching the top shelf, but I fear I am also not taken seriously when my passion surges to fill my tiny body and bubble over. I also wish I were better able to protect the things I love: my art from the thieves that came last August or my little brother from the bullies at school. No one would challenge a giant bear that spoke Latin. No one.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Would You Rather Be Happy Or Right (Abridged Version)
Salute - 418 Words
Lindsey Thompson
“I know what I said when I signed up for this. You and I both knew the money was a big part of it, with everything paid for and thousands to spare. But that wasn’t all of it, you saw that too. I told you I was ready to go bust into towns and shoot down some Arabs and terrorists, that I wanted to protect my country by killing whoever ran into my fucking crosshairs.” Another sip from the hidden elixir. A breath, a clearing of the head. I remain silent, stoic, my insides churning. “Fucking Arabs were easy to pick off. Turban-heads.” Here he leaks a sardonic smirk. “I was damn good.”
“There was this battle. We don’t go close range much, but we were in a town. And…there was this kid. Maybe 13 years old. God, there’s no way his voice could have dropped yet. He screamed when he saw me, eyes full of fear. He scared the shit out of me, coming around a corner. I…I didn’t mean to shoot, I didn’t know I had pulled the trigger until his head rolled back.” The tears are coming now. “Then his older sister rounds the corner and sees him, and she screams like I’ve never heard a human yell before. She glares at me, head and hands covered in his blood, and grabs a gun, screaming in Arabic.” His breathing is heavy. “I killed her too. I shot them both so fucking full of holes to shut out the sounds…”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes. He lifts a shaky hand to his mouth, and tears begin to trickle between his fingers. I see that his sleep is haunted, his silence shattered. All I can do is sit across and watch him crumble, for I am frozen.
I Want To Destroy Something Beautiful - Josh Woodward
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Genesis and Revelation
Velvet - 141 Words
Lindsey Thompson
It’s easy because it never lasts. Nothing can be new forever, and so I sit and remember many months and years and lives ago when you first barged in on my soul, naked before my ears and mind. And now I think, how easy is it left to pass.
I am not the same man I was. You are not my muse. Now, we sit and read the paper as the storms pound.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Happy Birthday
Leap - 103 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Thursday, June 10, 2010
To The Stand
Wand - 167 Words
Lindsey Thompson
He was just a little scared. He told the judge that, that he was just alone and scared, and that color didn’t matter, but the judge said it did.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Decorated Angels and Absent Gods
Starlight - 471 words
Lindsey Thompson
The slamming of the door announced the arrival of her father, who was greeted with harsh criticism for the noise. Her father yelled in response, clearly possessed with the powers of that gross drink that makes adults act weird and extreme. The arguing commenced, and Annabelle wiggled anticipation, for arguing meant that after the screaming and occasional banging and smashing about downstairs, he would come upstairs. And, true to his ways, he stomped defiantly up the steps and semi-quietly peeked into Annabelle’s room.
“Hey, papa bear.” She tried to whisper, to sound sleepy, but she failed.
“Hey, baby bear,” he murmured. “Why are you still awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been thinking.”
He grinned as he sat on his daughter’s small twin bed. “And what have you been thinking about?”
She shrugged beneath her My Little Pony comforter. “Stuff.”
He began to pat her leg, still smelling of that gross drink, and teetering a little on the edge of the tiny mattress. “Well,” he asked, “what would help you sleep?”
She beamed and sat up, almost giving away her true anticipatory excitement level. “A story!” Finally, they came.
He leaned in closer and began a story. Her favorite story. The story about the angel with stars for earrings and a heart-shaped moon as her necklace. Annabelle’s father always made up the best stories, and once he knew her favorites, he would retell them, embellish them, and occasionally get small facts wrong just so she could pout, cross her arms and say, “No, daddy, that’s not it!”
Drew lived for the stories he wrote for his daughter. Her chestnut eyes would gleam with curiosity and wonder as he narrated the betrothal of the angel and the hunt for the moon-necklace, how with her sadness, the stars she wore began to die, and that with her happy marriage to a man, she relinquished her wings and her stars, but gave the moon to the man’s world—after a bit of breaking and reshaping.
During his storytelling, he forgot the mortgage he was late on paying, the nights he heard his wife cry herself to sleep, the affair letters he discovered in her dresser. He would go to sleep praying for some kind of god to keep an eye on Annabelle.
And Annabelle would sleep, praying for starlight to decorate her jewelry.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
His Arms Are Heavy
Bow - 214 Words
Lindsey Thompson
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Every thought, every beginning, disappears like mist beneath a summer sky or cats into shadows. I grasp my necklace, create some empty phrases that appear as hollow as they feel, then erase them just as quickly from the page as I placed them. The summer weather is beginning to stick to my skin, and I can feel the south claiming me. The first lightning bugs will be out soon, and then I will forget about you.
It’ll be about four years, come next week, since that day we went to the park. The water glistened with the sun of July, and we sat on the grass as the wind pushed the blades and the waves across the surface of our world. The sun set, and we sat on a tree branch to watch it go, the tree’s arm bowed with the memories of other children and other sunset, other seats and other kisses that mirrored and rivaled our own.
That tree was cut down six months ago; the branch finally gave way under the weight of drunk teenagers, and one jack-ass got a broken arm. Truth be told, I was glad to see it go; I couldn’t see it but feel your breath next to me.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Legend of the Great White Kite
Kite - 400 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Once upon a time, there was a glorious, massive kingdom full of mountains that shimmered gold against the sun, forests that rustled with life, and rivers that sang each morning and roared with waterfalls after the rain. All who lived within the kingdom were grateful to the sun each morning it rose, the clouds for each drop of rain, and thanked the souls of the animals and plants that fed them every day. For every living thing has a soul, the inhabitants believed, and in return for their respect the animals served as friends and companions.
But the animal that no man could keep but every man wished to see was the Great White Kite. With eyes bright amber burning in his snowy head, the Kite was the messenger to the sun, the tamer of the winds, and the one who summoned the storms. His vast wings would shimmer a powerful silver whenever bad fortune was near, so the people of the kingdom looked to him as the warning sign.
Whenever one beheld the Kite, he ran and told all of the nearby villagers what color the Kite’s wings were and any words he had said or been given. One year, a young boy beheld the Kite, shining a pure white and holding in a powerful talon one succulent strawberry. After one loud call, the Kite was back to the skies, but that was the year that strawberries grew in every field, and no child went without food, for the strawberries were both the tastiest and the healthiest mankind had ever seen. Yet another year, an old woman saw the Kite in mourning, head bowed and wings a dark grey as storm clouds formed overhead. He stood next to the body of a once lively and well-loved fox, taken by a virulent disease. Silent, he flew into the trees and watched the woman weep, turning to heaven as she walked slowly back to the village. For seven months, man, woman, child, and beast died, leaving the kingdom devastated.
After a few hundred years, the people began to hunt the Great White Kite, believing that with its death, the sun and winds and clouds would not know what was done in the kingdom. With bows made of the arms of unwilling trees and strings made of protesting animals' sinews, men shot at the heavens and swore that the earth was theirs.
Speed of Sound - Angry String Orchestra
Lindsey Thompson
Once upon a time, there was a glorious, massive kingdom full of mountains that shimmered gold against the sun, forests that rustled with life, and rivers that sang each morning and roared with waterfalls after the rain. All who lived within the kingdom were grateful to the sun each morning it rose, the clouds for each drop of rain, and thanked the souls of the animals and plants that fed them every day. For every living thing has a soul, the inhabitants believed, and in return for their respect the animals served as friends and companions.
But the animal that no man could keep but every man wished to see was the Great White Kite. With eyes bright amber burning in his snowy head, the Kite was the messenger to the sun, the tamer of the winds, and the one who summoned the storms. His vast wings would shimmer a powerful silver whenever bad fortune was near, so the people of the kingdom looked to him as the warning sign.
Whenever one beheld the Kite, he ran and told all of the nearby villagers what color the Kite’s wings were and any words he had said or been given. One year, a young boy beheld the Kite, shining a pure white and holding in a powerful talon one succulent strawberry. After one loud call, the Kite was back to the skies, but that was the year that strawberries grew in every field, and no child went without food, for the strawberries were both the tastiest and the healthiest mankind had ever seen. Yet another year, an old woman saw the Kite in mourning, head bowed and wings a dark grey as storm clouds formed overhead. He stood next to the body of a once lively and well-loved fox, taken by a virulent disease. Silent, he flew into the trees and watched the woman weep, turning to heaven as she walked slowly back to the village. For seven months, man, woman, child, and beast died, leaving the kingdom devastated.
After a few hundred years, the people began to hunt the Great White Kite, believing that with its death, the sun and winds and clouds would not know what was done in the kingdom. With bows made of the arms of unwilling trees and strings made of protesting animals' sinews, men shot at the heavens and swore that the earth was theirs.
Speed of Sound - Angry String Orchestra
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Man Whose Name was Anonymous
Lack - 221 Words
Lindsey Thompson
He didn’t have much. He was a man of simple needs, so it mattered very little that his phone only had numbers and his source of music was the beat-up Diskman he had rescued from a trash compactor in a friend’s apartment. His only access to the internet was through a laptop he described as “older than Jesus,” but it ran just fine for word processing. If he needed more, he went to the library.
He would walk to his local bakery every morning to buy one sweet roll with a cup of coffee and then to stroll to the park. It was there that he sat and typed for hours, occasionally deleted his entire progress (sometimes from displeasure, other times from a dying battery). Once the battery died, he stopped typing and traversed the town to sit at his post as the translator for a major restaurant. His clothes hung in a locker—black slacks, shined shoes, a white collared shirt and black skinny tie—and were always clean and pressed.
After closing, he strolled home with the leftovers the cooks always sent with him. He crawled into bed, plugged in his laptop for another day’s writing, and would gaze at the ceiling until Morpheus took him.
He lacked nothing, he would think as he drifted sleepily, except, perhaps, a dog.
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