The Comma

This is my piece, Comma, which was published with The Noctua Review

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Comma
It’s the little hours I like best. In between moments of rest and wake, eyes parch like paper. Scratchy and dry they turn toward the edges of something missed by only a mark.
The Almost, but Not Quite of a woman turning her head or the skinny places where buildings almost touch. It’s the cross section between thoughts that mean something and thoughts that want to be something. They intersect, briefly touching in a fleeting moment before the intensity is too much. The period at the end of the sentence seems too final.

The Pillow

pillow

Name: Fluffy

Age: Timeless

Three things I can’t live without:

Softness

The smell of fresh spring rain

Geese

What I’m looking for:

Someone with a good head on their shoulders.

Perfect date:

Someone who will hold me tight on long winter nights.

Favorite movies:

Sleepless in Seattle.

The Burning Bed.

Four Sheets to the Wind.

Favorite Quote:

“I’m a dreamer’s paradise.”

Transitioning

subway

Dear Readers,

I have published something on Skirt Collective. It’s not an object piece, but I thought I’d post it here anyway just in case you’re interested in reading. If you’d like to leave a comment I’d love to read it – but please, if you could leave it on the Skirt Collective site, that would be great. Thanks guys!

http://www.skirtcollective.com/transitioning-an-essay-on-finding-your-way/

The Purse and The Scarf

pursex

There was once a purse more solid and secure than any other purse in the town. She was large with a dull leather body, and a strong strap that dangled by her side. The only problem she faced was that she felt perpetually empty.

I need something to fill me up, she constantly thought. Something logical. Something I can rely on. She stuffed herself with money. Loose dollar bills and coins weighed her down. With her new wealth, she could buy anything she wanted.

She bought a wallet for organization. She bought chapstick so that she wouldn’t crack. She bought a comb, floss, band aids (just in case) and a pad of paper. Still, she felt empty. Her items were necessities, but she still needed more.

The other purses she saw looked fancy. They were patterned with the help of different stitches. As a collection of material, they stood together, fabric clinging to the outside of their leather. They had color and life where her body felt heavy and dark. When the purse looked at the others, she could only feel sadness.

Then one day at the thrift store the purse saw a scarf. It was pink, flowy, and blew in the air conditioning.

“You look like the perfect scarf,” the purse said.

“Thank you, but I’m far from perfect,” the scarf replied.

“But why?”

“I’m too flighty. Without something to tie me down, I’ll blow away. You are the perfect one. So secure and strong. If only I had your presence.”

“You wouldn’t want to be me,” the purse lamented. “I may be secure, but I feel completely empty. Can I use you to make me feel whole inside?”

The scarf thought for a moment. “No, I can not fill you up.”

“But I need you. I have all this stuff inside me, but I’m still so empty.”

“I can not fill you up. I’m too light and there is not enough of me to fill that hole.”

The purse started to cry. “What will I do?”

“I’ll tell you what,” the scarf said after careful consideration. “We can become friends. Arm in arm, we can travel throughout life together. You’ll tie me down, and I’ll support you.  I’ll never be able to fill you up completely, but a part of me will cover you with color.”

The purse stopped crying. She held out her strap and the scarf clung on. Together they would face the days side by side.

The Jar

jar

I like to call it my glass pocket. The jar that holds scraps of paper, twisted, bent and floating to the top. Crinkled memories saved. Sketches of celebrities doing novel things in far off places. A picture of David Duchovny eating McDonalds on the Coney Island ferris wheel twirls in place. Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love to Isis.

Put a lid on it, they say.

But I can’t close my pocket. Its memories might shatter.

Paper

paper

I like to think of my paper, my notebook sheets, as having texture. I want the lines to stick like staples punched through to the other side. Their long, skinny forms, plucked up from the page in an effort to rise above. I want the page to feel rough and gritty. Hard and torn through in spaces just empty enough to fill with small rips of imperfection. Lines like ridges would guide my pen in a steady cadence. Trotting through a white desert, my landscape would guide me in the right direction.

Instead my page is one long ice rink. Its smoothness leaves no gaps big enough to see through. The torn spots and crinkled edges are invisible. My paper has flat lined.

My instant reaction is to pump it back to life. Electricity in the shape of a fat black marker needs to run down the center. Cutting up sections of white plains with inked out projections. Just so there’s something. Just so there is a pattern that is slightly out of shape.

I will not get a rise from my paper. Instead, I will continue to run my fingernail across the surface. I wait for the bite of a smooth edge sharpened.

Soles

stairs-man-person-walking-large

Leather souls clink like ear drums. They beat on the pavement of a sound mind. Worn out, as if souls could get tangled in the washing machine next to gray stringy lingerie. It’s what’s underneath that counts.