Mar 31, 2014
The dark becomes a little darker in her eyes.
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seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from China
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Italy
The dark becomes a little darker in her eyes.
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Somnambulist
I remember the night my mother went sleepwalking, trapped within mental limbo in the hold of a deceased man her body swore was still alive. Eyes half open, I followed her padding footsteps as she made a midnight snack for her invisible guest, plating fried dumplings through narrow vision and dark kitchen.
She sat across from him at the table, giggled and smiled and talked incoherently, spouting gibberish that I might have been able to translate in her world of dreams. Her arm reached for his airy hand at the center of the Formica circle, an endearing twinkling in her eyes lit by a buzzing lightbulb on the stove's vent hood. She spoke in Cantonese to his camouflaged presence, in words I only recognized later to be, "Love, this feels like a dream to me."
With a hand clasped around air, she returned to bed, staring through me as she turned around to bide her silent guest good night.
For the longest time, my mother preached the rules of dealing with sleepwalking: "Don't wake them up, don't speak to them, don't interrupt." In our family, sleepwalking is a common thing, though that doesn't mean it's any less frightening.
How many breaths does it take to be considered real?
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Each day is killing me, slowly.
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Gravedigger
For years, I had known a man everyone called, “Morty.”
"But his name’s Luke," I argued vehemently in my head. His name really was Luke. The barefooted, bearded guy, all with ankle band and rustic shorts equipped, earned celebrity status around campus. And they called him Morty.
I recognized his woven ankle charm and foot protruding from a bush as I took my morning jog, his dirt-ridden heel swinging side-to-side. I paused from routine exercising to peer at him.
One palm cradled a small mound of dirt, while another held the carcass of a crimson-chested bird. Kneeling, he curled his back to lower the corpse before laying it in it’s underground bed. He poured a blanket of pebbles and stone atop his feathered client. His whispered prayers scattered across thistled foliage and bushy squirrel tails, chanting words from an ancient people whittled by time. As he finished the ceremony for his feathered friend, Luke glanced over his shoulder, at me.
I smiled, awkward with new attention. “How do you like to be called?”
My Bee's Knees
Her eyes wrapped around my throat, catching the words in motion before they escaped my cage of teeth.
"No," she objected, a ruthless stab in vocal form. "Do. Not. You. Dare."
She does things to me, you see, changing me subtly like the fluctuating temperatures of a mercurial Texas day.
Seeds get inserted into my tongue through her kisses, onto my skin with her teasing warmth. I have become a man who bears sprouting greens whenever he sweats, and she makes me perspire quite often.
"What?" I grin, watching as her front teeth burst through the seam of her peachy lips.
"If you say, ‘bee’s knees’ again, I swear…"
"You’ll swear an allegiance to me?"
"Maybe," she purred, brushing me off with her bristled, winking eyelids.
"Do you think," I leaned over to her, tucking my nose in her hair, "that bees really do have knees?"
We found vanity in your vein.
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Isn't it ironic that if you already knew something, it's no longer new?
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