Airing

I told you not to follow me. I hate you so much, you know? Why can’t you just go away? Why can’t you just leave me alone? You disgust me. You’re a nuisance. You’ve got no purpose. You’re completely worthless. Wait, have I struck a nerve? I tried to kill you but you just won’t die. I tried to beat you but you just won’t bend. I tried to ignore you but your ugly whisperings slip through the cracks in my brain, cutting wires, cutting skin. Your crudely carved arms have no place around my waist. Your moist, burning breath can’t find rest on my neck. When I at last tear you off me, you won’t

Across the summer grass rolls the wind. It twists around each blade, each stalk and leaf, the stems and petals of the clusters of small flowers. It slips through the clouds, which pile up on the horizon like a ripped bag of cotton balls and drift along the wide cerulean with the placid grace of an old ship. No one hears the wind as I do, no one hears the bass roar with the same thrill–it pushes through me and turns me round, I'm lost in unfamiliar peace–the crying air fills my veins in place of heavy, human blood, rushes through each tainted capillary and bursts with long-forgotten purity. Overhead, a brilliant speck of a plane floa

She had that arch of the eyebrows again, the one that said that she knew more than me. Her little mouth that could say so much of nothing in particular was twisted into a sly grin, attempting without effort to hide its condescension. The hand that held the bow rested with self-granted assurance on her knee, threatening me with her flurries of notes. Her face erupted into a light laugh and she tossed her head back. Her being pierced me in this way, an angelic devil with a heavy mass of more-red-than-auburn curls, capable of nothing and everything. I looked away. This face made me seethe. After a year of pretending, we both snapped. We foug

Rushing rivulets stream through my hair against dry dust and dry air. Ignited by sweet water, my flame is refreshed. No blaze can withstand no contrast.

Distantly we discover clouds climbing down rustily we recall a certain splashing sound ordinarily we oust umbrellas to dusty corners, but unusually we unfold and shake them out gratefully we greet outdoors bare of foot and hungrily we hang heads back, shunning wasteland thirstily, we drink.

Captain Jean Durant saw the battered, ancient palace days before she actually reached it. With each day of walking, the immense stone structure loomed ever taller, rising over the peaceful stretches of dirt surrounding it on three sides, appearing squat against the mountains which rose behind the palace in a strange authoritarian harmony. Through the base of the palace ran a twisting stream of water, gushing merrily with runners of green bordering it. She had followed it to the source in the hopes of encountering life. From the looks of it, the ruins were not going to be any help. "But," Jean reasoned, "I may as well try, since I'll die if th

She began to play. Her bow skated across the strings in frenzied strokes and her tone was just a hoarse whisper, but she played with determination. I chose to fix her bow later. Hand position was more important at the moment–every note was a shade flat. I directed her to move her hand down the board and she fumbled and lost the song. She grimaced at her bow hand, fussing that she never thought it would be so strenuous to hold a bow. I let her pack up for the day, saying no more but to ask that she practice her grip with a pencil and have a good evening. A couple of years passed with only the greatest effort. She worked the Bach Suites