“Everything tha…

“Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.”

-Martin Luther King, Jr.



Not Much of An Anthem

I want to be the heroine,

and the rain that ends the drought.

I want to have bookshelves

From the ceiling to the moon.

I want too many letters to write.

I want my parents to say; “I raised her.”

With pride shining through their eyes.

I want my teachers to say; “I taught her.”

I want them to be surprised.

I want to look back,

Forty–sixty years from now.

To know that chasing dreams,

with both arms open,

is better than living quietly,

while they wither, break, and die.


A friend of mine recently told me that I “need” a new car. Pfft! (Or whatever a scoff/noise of disgust sounds like)

“Just look at it.” She didn’t look, only waved in its direction. “How can you ride around in something so ugly.”

My car isn’t ugly, and–in actuality–it isn’t even my car. It’s my mom’s but she and I love it to death.

“Yeah well, it runs.” I shrugged, but what I wanted to say was:

“When you’re on the side of the road in your sputtering Pontiac, again don’t ask me for a ride.”

I don’t see why I should get anything different.

Of course, people do look at me strangely when I go around in my ’93 Corolla. As reliable as it is, I can’t help but feel too humbled on the highways in a car older than I am. Sure, it gets 32 miles on the gallon. Sure, it’s maintenance costs are less than my hair styling. Who cares about that, right? It’s ugly.


Favorite cars anyone?

Maybe it died?

It’s more likely that

The feeling there


Is hiding away

Struck dumb and unaware


Of the person you really are

For however long you want it

To just show up and just

Exist, which it

Never does when wanted, While


You wait

Obscenely eager, yet

Understandably so

Relieved at its


Failure to crawl

Away and


Lest it find a way home

To you once again


More poetry that only loosely makes any sense. Enjoy 🙂

There’s a weird sort of feel

To the air, I mean. Anyway, have a story-bit…I’m tired of having no time to spare.

Work, work, work…I feel sick after just a couple months back in school.

My writing skills are slipping too, as you’ll see below. Maybe it’s lack of sleep?

It’s dim. The time is far from night though. I watch the sky with unease and drum my fingers against the outside of the car. The air is damp and heavy. Every breath in feels cloying as though it’s paste I’m breathing in and not the usual diffuse of smog that drifts down this side of the river. It’s clear a storm is coming from that alone—though the dark gray of the sky is also a good sign. I mentally remind myself to get a raincoat. Umbrellas aren’t much use in this weather. I’ve had my fair share of them turning inside out when the winds pick up. When the light goes green I drive forward, but not fast enough for the pair of cars that overtake me quickly before attempting the same with each other. I try to stay a good ways behind them. Most people are home this hour or heading for a night job someplace, I watch the cars parallel, their noisy engines roaring into the night. Soon their lights are all I see and the road quiets and there is nothing left but the open road and I with a Jeep that’s seen better days than this.

The two lanes merge and the land beneath falls away into the bay. I like looking out off the sides of the bridge, the city seems far, and it feels as though I’m flying above it all. I wonder if that’s what it would feel to be living on the clouds or on the sun. Would one feel as though they’re flying? I like the smell that drifts in with the air; it’s salty and somehow drier than that of other places.

Did the sun blow up?” Jo’s question startles me. I glance in the rear-view to affirm his presence, this little boy that doesn’t belong to me.

I shake my head. “No. It’s coming back after this storm passes.”

When will that be?” He shuffles papers in his lap.

Soon.” I hope.

He settles into a napping position, slumped against the door, with his thumb in his mouth. I get the urge to tell him to take it out, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. It’s not as though I’ll ever see him again. The nine-year-old is the child of one of my father’s colleagues. He and my mother are hosting some sort of moving-away party for his parents. Since it’s also the last in a long chain of surprise events planned for the day I’ve been charged to get their son from school early with their permission so he can go and do whatever there is to do at daycare centers. I haven’t heard a word from the little black-haired kid from the moment he stepped into my car. Though I have seen him once or twice when his parents come over we aren’t exactly what one would call friends. Usually he sits in our living room and reads by himself or draws. I haven’t heard very many words from him.

To the far left of the road, I see a blue little car parked real close to the rail. I see no one near it, though it seems likely that it’s had engine trouble. I think of the several people I know who’ve gotten the little “energy efficient” and “Eco-friendly” models only to end up cursing them quite soon after. I glance about for sign of someone once more, but see no one.

Collin?” He sounds deflated.

I glance back but his face hidden by his arm. “Yes?”

I don’t want to go.” Now I see that he’s upset. A wet trail goes down his cheek.

I sigh and choose not to prod, but only try to understand. “Where?”

He hastily wipes at his eyes. “Home.”

Why not?” I really hope they haven’t done anything bad to him, then scold myself for assuming that. H’s nine, little kids get upset all the time, right? I was becoming my father.

Because we have to go away again.” This is followed by a sniffle.

I’m not sure what to say to that. “Well, moving’s not so–” I don’t get to finish my sentence.

Look!” He points suddenly forward, blue eyes wide.

The road seems empty at first, and then I see the figure—likely human—that’s doubled over right in the middle of it. I try to swerve past but there is no way to without driving the side of my car, right where Jo sits, into the side railing. An emerald pair of eyes look up to us, glinting in the headlights. I step hard onto my brakes but to no avail. That only adds a sharp squeal to the terrible thunk of flesh and thin cloth on the front bumper. Worse yet, the hit sends them flailing backward and right, within seconds–over the railing. When at last the jeep stops I hurry out, my heart lodged someplace in my stomach. Jo’s wide eyes follow me out of the car and to the railing. I jog, and grip the sides as I look down, not sure what to look for.

I see the still gray-green water and the cement beams that hold the bridge up. I see no sign of anyone then a movement is to my right. I look, gripping so hard I fear my hand might bruise–but it turns out to be nothing. I exhale the breath I was holding and wonder why, and what I should do. My hand goes to my pocket. The police, of course. I pull out my cellphone and find the battery dead, the small square of its touch-screen gone cool and black. Black like the clouds. A raindrop, fat and cold hits my hand and it is enough to make me tremble as I look up. More come plummeting down and it quickly becomes a downpour. I stay there, head hung over the rail, unsure of what to do and full of a sickening feeling. As though my stomach is eating itself from the inside out.

I run a hand through my hair, soaked as it is, and see that Jo has left the car. He peers over with me, without any fear at all in his face. The initial bit of surprise seems to have worn off pretty quickly on him. The words that leave my mouth even shock me.

It was just a dog.” I tell him.

He furrows his brow, gives me a questioning look. “Really? It looked like a–”

Dog.” I say quickly, quietly. “Let’s go.” I feel the nausea coming.

Oh.” He sounds younger, seems smaller. “Okay.”

Kids believe anything you say to them, right? I feel eyes on my back as I lead Jo back to the car.

© All Rights Reserved

Immaterialist 2012

Catching it Quick

Slip through a window


Wait as the cars go


Run through the white snow



—Ending the quiet with some poetry :’p

Expect more words from me

(oh yes, that rhymed *fistpump*)