Saturday, December 22, 2007

~The Mistress of Watermelon by Ann Walters~

Singing wisdom, she works her garden like an aria. Forgetful tunes, tomato forks, the slick white capsule of the cicada grub just emerging – an astronaut gripping the edge of space. Sitting back on her heels, she waits for its accompaniment. The smooth melon in its infancy is a thick green egg veined with hope. She hums a soothing lullaby and swindles the soil with fish oil and pennies, with magic in the form of worship. With hymns and love.

~Off the Path by Comrade Kevin~

We decided to take a slight diversion from the path. The illustrated trail map provided for all hikers at no additional cost proved to be largely inaccurate and ineffective. Copyright 1974, it seemed to have been made by an high school student for a civic project.

It's not as though getting lost was ever an issue. The desert is flat as a pancake, spreads out for miles and miles, and does not provide a vast amount of landmarks which obscure one's vision.

Jane scaled the bluff in ancient gardening clogs which I initially expressed doubt could provide her enough foothold to scale to the top. She proved me wrong by her slow, methodical approach, digging her heels into the each raised ridge and slowly pulling herself to the top of the sun-soaked boulder.

~Thanatos by Rion~

At the museum I wanted to straddle the mummies. At 12, I didn't know what the straddling would lead to, but it felt happy-dirty, like imagining french-kissing Jesus during services at Sacred Heart.

I still brush my hand up against the glass case when I visit the old man. What history, all distilled into a wizened form! If I could suck that up into me somehow, get wiser, I could make more money or at least not care if I made any less.

My aunt is dying and it makes me cry just a little, but it passes. Would that she could carry the same living meaning as a statue taxidermied in our hearts.

~Dancing with Myself by kj~

See, this is why I hate bringing cameras into the club. Because it's not about how you look, ok--yes, thanks, my butt looks gigundous here, like nobody ever points that out when they see the picture--but it is about what you *do*.

Fuck you and your little high-school glittery stuff around your face, ok? And those shiny four-inch heels you can't dance in? Because while you're over there leaning against the wall and posing like a spoiled diva and pretending like you don't care whether or not That Guy Is Looking At You, *I'm* out dancing, ok, and feeling the sound get under my skin and ignite, and while *you* end up pouty and drunk and out $30 from your stupid trendy cranberry-and-vodka-and-Red Bulls, *I* end up dancing like the wind, and having a glorious time.

Even if you think my butt looks big.

~Liftoff by kj~

"Momma! Look! Look at our spaceship!"

She turned a page of her magazine, and did not look up. "It's lovely," she said.

"Mom!" cried Javier, as the spaceship lifted off, and the roof folded aside to let it pass. "You're not even looking!"