two cents for the girl
who only sees flaws
and maybe a penny for the fingernail-claws
that she digs in her calves in the dark, every day,
(more) uses paperclips 'cause
her razor's taken away.
a penny will do for that boy with cigars
doesn't smoke, you see, he hates the char
just selling the stash (from his unpleasant dad)
has enough money for a brand new drum-pad
that he'll bring to band class
to impress that shy chick
with the blue streak in her hair just a few inches thick
and a novel-in-progress that
nobody will read
a dime for her, madam, for college, you see
money will help them!
(but more so, a hand
or a shoulder to rest on
and two feet to stand.)(less)
Consider: Coffee mornings, wine evenings, tea afternoons. When you're not full enough, you turn to something else.
Find religion. Find love. Find science. Find meaning.
(more) "The credit existentialism gets! But every human wonders why, and how! A whole philosophy trying to lay claim to inquisitiveness. What arrogance!"
"And what of absurdism?"
"What of it?"
"It is simply existentialism with more comedic timing."
"What an unfortunate anvil to drop from the sky!"
Consider Sunday morning cartoons that did not question reality for you as a child. Consider Calvin and Hobbes (the comic, not the philosophers, although one can imagine very little difference between the two).
An uncurious life is simply one that feels satisfied, and satisfaction killed more cats than curiosity ever did.
Anything helps a hunger, although nothing can cure it.
"You're gonna get in that truck over there. You aren't going to shoot at me because you don't want the shitstorm it's gonna bring down on your life, your family, and you don't know just how quick I am with this pistol here," I continue my steady walk towards them. (more)
As I get closer, it's clear that they're nothing more than kids - 18 or 19. Brainwashed bigots, animals who glut for any bit of power they can manage, even if it's over a little girl. They're scared. And they're silent. I can hear their thoughts scrambling around in the air with each other. I can feel two flights, and one fight reverberating through the dirt.
I am five feet away now. They only have one pistol between the three of them, and it's leveled at me. The two cowards stand behind the gun. The girl is paralyzed and unable to do anything but stare at the scene that unfolds before her.
"I'm gonna shoot, GET THE FUCK BACK!"
I stand still, my pistol at my hip: "Ways I see it, you've got two choices kid. You get in that truck and you drive away, or you try to shoot me. If you try to shoot me, a couple of things-"
I feel his body tense up. In an instant, I sidestep, and hit him with my right - the butt of the pistol smashing into his temple. I hear the shot richochet off the car behind me. The cowards run into their truck.
I have his shooting arm in a lock, and my pistol at his throat. I growl in his ear, "Drop the fucking gun." Thud on the dirt. "Get the fuck out of here."
When he is gone, I collapse - guns, girl, and dirt all around.(less)
is it really a surprise that sometimes the thunder roars in her ears and the storm rages in the heavens that she reached at in her rapid descent, and is it really worth scorning the nights where sleep slips through her fingers and even the moon won't hold her(more) secrets?
there are days when all she is is a photograph left to decay in the pounding rain and all that's in her ears is water, rushing, deafening, flooding her brain and blinding her eyes. there are days where the winds ravage at her feet as she crosses the tightrope with shaking arms extended in useless hopes of steadying her tilting legs, and all it takes is one
to unseat her and let her fall
just like she did that once, but unlike then she doesn't steady herself, doesn't grope for a scrap of fabric, just lets herself go in utter resignation, because there's no top to her hole, just dirt walls that crumble at her nails and taunts from the birds that fly overhead.(less)
I swear, I can and will do anything to procrastinate. Anything and everything is prime fodder for the practice. Typetrigger is. A pen is. My hair is. Food is. The loose thread from the hem of my t-shirt is. Even other homework is. I need a life.
"That was... rather callous, if you don't mind me saying. Not that I'm condemning your actions! You handled the situation quite well."
She shrugs carelessly. "Eh, it got the problem solved."
After a brief stretch of silence, he turns to face her. She's driving the carriage now,(more) gripping the reins taut and steady. She really was much stronger than he could ever hope to be. "How did you know I was this proficient at the curative arts? Minor surgeries aren't often in the repertoire of a man with a first aid kit."
He falters. "I-is that wise..?"
"Hey, I use what I've got. Besides Prof, a guy like you? Of course you'd know this kind of stuff!"
With a sigh he turns back to face the horses, watching the scenery rattle by. "I fear you give me far more credit than I'm due."
"Aw don't get all gloomy on me, Prof!" She gives his arm a friendly punch, chuckling at his startled expression. "Lighten up! I gotta say, you are by far the most useful client I've ever had. You might not think much of your scholarly ways when dealing with the rougher side of life but I tell you, the right kind of knowledge out here goes a long way. Every bit of leverage helps, y'know? And here's another reason to turn that frown upside-down - we're almost there!"
He stops nursing his arm, perking up considerably. "What, already? Why, it's not yet evening!"
"Yeah, that's the pass for you; dangerous as hell, but quite the time-saver."
"Even with with the impromptu aciurgy, that's a mere seven hours for a trip that normally lasts days!"
"Ain't it great?"
He beams, clasping an affable hand on her shoulder. "Absolutely marvelous."(less)
this bus, this city, the pale sky. And how we ache, in places left untouched. Touch me, kiss me on the bus. Divert me from my drivel, love me into awakening. Fresh dawn kisses like a memory surge. We lived then, we loved then. my stop, dear stranger...
In high school, the easiest thing was to take a life. Indirectly, of course. All it took was one forwarded email of an embarrassing photo, one little white lie, one rumor. It was so easy to lie(more) and gossip to fit in. It was so easy to laugh at the loser. It was so easy to point the finger at someone else.
Olivia killed herself junior year.
I liked to think I didn't have a part in it. I liked to think I was innocent, that I was not the one to tighten the noose around Olivia's neck with every harsh word.
Killing--even indirectly--was the easiest option. Until now.
He is sitting in the corner of the coffee shop where I work, head down. He ordered a latte but hasn't taken a sip yet. He reminds me of Olivia, in her last days. Shoulders slumped. Tired eyes. A long neck, perfect for a noose. Like Olivia's neck.
I need to stop thinking, I need to keep his neck from a rope, so I walk over.
"Sir? Do you need anything?"
"No." His voice is whisper-soft, Olivia's voice, the voice of a girl I helped to murder.
"Are you okay?"
"You don't look it."
I wait, but he doesn't say anything. I am a little embarrassed now, but I remind myself of Olivia, of her slender neck swollen by a rope.
"Do you want me to leave now?" I ask.
He doesn't answer, so I take it as a no. I sit.
"My name is Cassandra," I say.
"Julius," he whispers.
"How's your day?"
"Well," I say, "I'm sorry you look so sad, and I hope that I can help."
With a defeated groan, Ed slumped over the open book. "I'm done in," he announced. "I can't take it any more. Bury me in books, let my headstone read requiescant in libro."
Al did not even look up at his elder brother's theatrics. "You're not getting a headstone,(more) I'm burning your body."
"Thanks, Al, that cheered me right up." Ed refused to raise his head. "Have you had any luck?"
"Not really." Al flipped a few pages in the book and sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "I am so done with ancient Japanese spirits. I can't even read Japanese."
Intrigued, Ed looked at the book Al had open before him. "Were you trying?"
"No, it's just a translation. But get this," he tapped the book. "According to popular lore, the sword is the soul of the samurai. And, conveniently enough, each of our victims had just recently purchased an authenticated Japanese sword from auction."
"Same sword, or different swords?" Ed asked, attention finally piqued.
"Same sword," Al affirmed. "It keeps going back to the auction house when the buyers can't pay up because of a terminal case of exsanguination."
"Huh," Ed said. "And you didn't think to mention this little fact before we sat in the fucking library for three hours?"
"Seemed way too easy," Al said. "Anytime a case seems that easy, the rug gets pulled out from under us, because of something simple that we overlooked. And since I don't know Japanese, and I know YOU don't know Japanese, I figured a small bit of research was in order." He sat back in his chair and smirked at Ed. "At any rate, I figured you would rather sulk about spending the day in the library, rather than phone up Kenshin and ask for his assistance again."
If anything helps then everything helps. If it can be assumed that to help one cause hurts another, it can be extrapolated that everything hurts.
Though even to cause one harm build character so it can retrospectively be ascertained that while help harms, harm also helps.
"No shit," you(more) might say. But if anything helps means everything hurts and hurt is help, help is hurt, hurt is hurt, and help is also help; then what does it mean to do nothing?
Nothing says it right there in the name it's no thing, but anything quantifies all things including nouns such as 'nothing.'
I give up. I haven't even gotten past the possible disambiguations of the topic.(less)
Superboy tells him, one night, that it's difficult to step foot into Gotham, now that Batman is gone. It feels almost sacrilegious.
Batman is still here.
Just not the Batman-who-was-the-night-and-justice.
(more) He doesn't need Superboy's clarification to understand. How could he not? Too often has the boundary between Robin and Batman been challenged for him to feign innocence. But he clings to it anyway, or what's left of it. The city seems almost unbearably bleak, some days; What's to stop it from taking another of their family? What is there left to save that's worth saving here? What help could he even give to make an actual difference?
He asks Superboy, one night, if it's so difficult, why do you come?
It wasn't as if the only place they could meet was Gotham; he isn't the same young boy from a year ago, unable to go anywhere without watching eyes- he grew up and left the nest and shed the uniform.
Superboy answers, why do /you/ come?
The bat-signal lights up in the distance, muffled against dark clouds, still believing a hero can save them.
Batman-who-isn't and Robin(-who-also-isn't) fly by, following it, flashes of light in the dark.
He and Superboy follow suit. (less)