she is nothing
—but a memory
& the scent that
upon my pillowcases—
—she stands her
—cast its aura
held its victim &
kist a spell
all in one night—
but a dream.(less)
Kilo restrained his thoughts. There was no way he was going to experience the blue skies from mother earth. Such beauty was only written about anymore. The earth, barley perceptible through the stained dome above was a mosaic of destruction. With a powerful enough telescope, and a cleaning crew,(more) one could see the clouds billowing and screaming across the planet. It was a wonder, kilo reflected, that anyone had tried to return after the war, or could return given the resources.
The base he lived now, was entirely self sufficient. Some time before, when the resources were plenty and the peace abundant, engineering made huge strides. Students and engineers worked together to create life support systems capable of flying them away to Alpha Centauri but instead they adapted those for permanent residence on the moon. When the older engineers passed away after the war they tried to teach their trade to the youth their new city-planet. Repairing solar panels, manufacturing and printing photocells, maintaining the huge sails that collected atoms to fuse viable oxygen and nitrogen. Unfortunately, the trade and tools has since almost been lost. The things that required fixing needed more time than they could spare to educate. Repairing and maintaing the dome was sidelined and here the compromise was made. Kilo stood contemplating why he wasn't able to see through that thick glass anymore and volunteered to take a team on a lift the few miles up to the Dome. It would be months before they were finished but he believed the work would be worth it. He may be able to inspire those here to take back control of their fate. It was said, back on earth, that art could inspire one to do things beyond measure. He hoped the art they needed was the stars.(less)
The first step is the heartbreak,
let it slam into you like a wave
that knocks you off your feet.
(more) If you have a way with cliches
use them now.
"I can't live without you."
"You're all I have."
"But I love you."
Tradition calls for icecream,
a gaggle of girlfriends, tissues,
an inability to get off the sofa
or out of pyjamas.
But I'm a modern girl
and will accept anything
in which you mope.
Care must be taken however,
with anything that might
suggest a sense of empowerment
(vigorous exercise, especially
boxing, or professional overachievement).
Best not to wear makeup,
to keep your clothing dull.
Phase this stage out slowly,
take a few faltering steps
out into the world like
a stumbling fawn.
Blink as you walk
into the light.
Let him slip out of your mind,
become a faint echo, pick up
something he gave you,
think "huh, haven't thought
about him in awhile."
Get busy: a gallery show,
a new sales account,
a slim volume of poetry,
a new boyfriend,
a new girlfriend,
a cap and gown at graduation.
Wait til things are going well,
look at your perfect life and
Remember how he always
left a mess, scattered crumbs
like Hansel and Gretel:
a trail from the kitchen to his chair.
He's missed you.
He's meditated on his mistakes
and become a Buddhist.
He can't live without you.
How can you do this to him?
With a woman?
He never thought you were gay.
He can tell you're drowning
yourself in work.
He's changed and why won't
you accept it?
Remember how he expected you
to clean up the mess.
My son Xater is enrolled in Ms Hiu's grade 2 class. So far this year, he has been very engaged in classroom activities, and has made great progress in his information technology and mathematics classes.
I am concerned, however,(more) that Xater still has not acquired basic spelling skills. Last week, I asked him to write a grocery list on an old i-pad of mine. He had no idea how to spell simple words like 'bread' or 'milk.' He said that in class, all of his assignments are composed using ThoughtReader, or at the very least, his e-writer with auto-complete enabled.
This is outrageous and unacceptable. I understand that in the 21st century, technology has rendered spelling and other primitive skills less of a priority for educators, but I urge you to ensure the basics are covered. What if Xater and his classmates needed to use a physical library, and needed to search for books alphabetically? Or if they were asked to fill out a job application on older technology, or even by hand? As much as I appreciate the many ways that technology makes humans more efficient, more flexible and (at times) more creative, I do not want my child to be entirely dependent on his devices for basic functions such as spelling.
I look forward to discussing this further with you.
She must’ve put him under a spell, that’s the only reason as to why his heart always beat faster when she’s around, his face gets hot at the weirdest times, his hands get all sweaty when his holding hers and he can’t seem to speak normally whenever she(more) talks to him.
He felt betrayed!! They’ve known each other since always, how could she do such a thing to him?! Which sort of best friend puts the other under a spell? Oliver decided he’d never again talk to her again, but after the first three days he walked the two blocks to her house, only to see Lyla talking to another boy!! He was so mad, at her for talking to the boy, at the boy for talking to her and at himself for not coming sooner. He just punched the other boy.
Lyla screamed and Mrs.Donne came running when she heard the commotion and called his mother after Lyla explained what happened. His mother arrived ten minutes later with the angriest face he’s ever seen.
His mother screamed at him and asked what happened. “It’s all Lyla’s fault.” He pointed to the girl outside. “She’s a witch mom! For real! She’s going to Hogwarts in 4 years. She put me under a spell, Mrs.Donne! My hands get sweaty, my hearts beats really fast and I get hot on the face!” He needed them to understand it wasn’t his fault.
The mothers smiled “Why don’t you apologize to the boy and ask Lyla about the spell?”
He went to the yard apologized to the boy and asked Lyla what she'd done to him. After he explained she just smiled and said: "It's because you like me, silly."(less)
"There's no such thing as magic," Edward said, brow turned down in a frown as he stared at Roy over the table. It was as if Roy had just pronounced he was actually a fish, and his entire existence was some kind of ridiculous, cosmic joke - that was(more) the expression on Edward's face. "Alchemists don't believe in magic."
He said it like it was an absolute truth of the world, that there was no doubt in Edward Elric's mind that magic simply did not exist. The intricacies of alchemy were easily explained away by chemical reactions and latent energy harnessed by the complicated arrays that alchemists wove, there was an explanation, and a place, for everything.
But yet - Edward was sitting at his dining room table, voluntarily. He came here of his own volition, lay sleeping and vulnerable beside Roy in his own bed, now he was wearing one of Roy's shirts that hung too long on him and could be a nightdress on a woman but on Edward it simply looked right ... he was HERE, wasn't he?
With the fork dangling out of his mouth, Edward squinted at Roy as if trying to unravel all of the mysteries of Mustang's mind at far too early on a Wednesday morning. "You're so weird," he pronounced finally, and resumed shoveling breakfast into his mouth. "Magic," he snorted again, around a mouth full of scrambled eggs.
Roy smiled, smitten despite himself, chin in hand - hopeless, inexorably, irrevocably in love with the younger blond man sitting perched at his breakfast table, scoffing the food set before him like a starving baby bird.
And really, wasn't there just the littlest bit of magic in that?(less)
The house laid upon a small knoll at the end of the street. It's brown paneled walls splintering past ugly getting closer to dilapidated everyday. It's driveway just large enough for four cars when organized. The interior walls hidden beneath theater posters, street signs, and various other m(more)emorabilia. The floors squeaked, the rooms were small, the outlets were faulty, everything ages as they say.
The small parking area necessitated parking either on the main street or the side street. The side street was two-hour parking when cops needed the money, otherwise it was open to all. The main street was a theater of comedy for the gentleman residents.
At night when the girls left the parties, or their boyfriends, the stage was set for their favorite play. This play was never rehearsed or consistent with actors, but it was always a full house. The name of the play was "Can you parallel park?" The director was intoxication, stupidity, or incompetence; the actors all amateur. The gentlemen are entertained the actors always flustered. Some take off in their rage, others will ask for help.
At the conclusion of their night the gentlemen call a, "here, here," as they finished their final drinks. One by one they all left the lure of the stage. The problem they found was that even after the spell was over the effects still remained. (less)