It’s the infinite moment. When you know you’ve made a mistake, and all you want to do is take it back. But you can’t. The damage is done.

………….The infinite moment. It’s disbelief at first. Acceptance slowly washes over you like a rising tide, and as it rises, it gets harder to breathe. You feel like your drowning, but there’s no panic. Because for that airless moment, you really wish you really would stop breathing. You pray for it even. But the moment passes and you inhale. And as seconds unfold, you witness a nightmare come true.

…………..Disbelief makes you question every action you made, every passed event.  You deny the truth like it was a lie, and you review everything in your mind over and over, trying to find something to prove it all isn’t real. Over and over, from the beginning…

Chestnuts, roasting on an open fire

Jack Frost nipping at your nose

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———-Somewhere across the sea, there is a land not many people know about. It is a land plagued with famine, strife, and sickness. Because of this, the people of the land live very sad lives, devoid of any real meaning. People here never smile, and because of them, the sun never really rises.

———-In this land, where orphans are as plentiful as leaves in the fall, there was a boy. He was an orphan like all the others, yet different in one way. Abandoned as a child, the boy did not know who his parents were; he envied the other children who could at least mourn parents they knew about. The boy always wondered if his parents were really alive. Had they died? Or did they just abandon him? Did they even love him? As far as the boy was concerned, he was alone in the world.

———-Then, one night, the boy had a vision. In the dream, he met an angel: she was a beautiful creature, with wings as white as snow, kind eyes, and a warm smile. The angel said to him, “Come join me in the land above the sky.” For once, he felt warm; for once, he felt safe; for once, he felt happy. But then in an instant, her words melted away, and he watched as her image faded into the shadows of his mind. When he awoke, he felt lost, cold, and alone. He needed to find the angel, because he was certain she would love him. He quickly set off on a journey, certain that his desires of warmth and happiness would soon be a reality. [Read more...]

———-Here’s a random point that will be my point. I think it could be said, that really, life is like watching TV. The different things you do are like changing the channel. That’s all life really is, just changing the channel, just changing the channel…

…

1776

Maybe the essay is self indulgent. Everyone knows that writing in italics can make what you write seem deep. And if what you’re writing in italics is too abstract, people will speculate a hidden deeper meaning behind it. Remember: abstraction=art.

…

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You know what the worst part is? It’s when you prove them right – when they say you can’t do something, and you want to deny it, but you end up failing at it anyway. They know you failed; you know you failed, and everyone knows you failed. So how do you recover from that? [Read more...]

I sometimes wish Isaac would die. Nothing too gruesome – I wouldn’t want to horrify people – but nothing too saintly either. That would make the funeral unbearable. No, just a clean, sudden death. I’d prefer it to be sudden, because when a death is prolonged, like with a disease, then people are sad longer and will start mourning the death before it even happens. Additionally, in such a situation, I would probably be expected to sit by his bedside, comforting him or our parents, and doing all of the things you would expect a good sister to do. Nope, something quick would be much better, not to mention more convenient, like being bit by a snake bite, or hit by a truck – like how you see it in movies, when the truck just bowls and kills the person right over.
He could go missing, be kidnapped and killed, or just simply disappear. But, no, that wouldn’t work; my parents would spend the rest of their lives wondering if their only son was still alive out there, somewhere, and I wouldn’t want my parents to suffer. He could commit suicide. He always was a moody child, never had anything good to say about himself, or anyone else, for that matter, me included. It was always everyone else who said nice things about Isaac, It was never about me, though. He could fit the profile of a classic suicide case. Well, of course, then, that would probably upset my parents a lot too. I wonder what his letter would say, if he committed suicide.
“Dear” –
No, he would never start a letter with “dear”; his letter would be a list of grievances – and stupid ones, too, like, “I did this because I couldn’t handle the pressure you were putting on me to enjoy things,” or “You just haven’t paid enough attention to me recently,” like he needs any more attention. Yup: his letter would be just like him; it would only piss me off. It would only upset my parents more, to read a letter like that; I’ll have to make sure I sneak in and steal it before they find him. They wouldn’t want to see that. I’d be doing them a kindness.
His funeral wouldn’t be fun. That would be the one upside to his just disappearing: no funeral. I’d have to get out of bed, otherwise, and probably put on some uncomfortable, stuffy black dress and pretend that I’m mourning. People would expect me to cry, won’t they? I should teach myself how to cry on command; I have all this free time now, anyway, and I bet someone here knows how to feign crying. It would probably be a good thing to know how to do, anyway. Who knows when you might to have to break out some tears?
Anyway, back to Isaac. What have I decided on? Suicide, right? Or what about that snake bite? He and my mom love to hike so much; it could easily happen. They’d be hiking on some trail in the mountains, and no one will be with them. Dad and I would be home, on the couch, watching a movie or something else that doesn’t require him to actually have a conversation with me. And Isaac? Isaac would be looking at a bush, maybe thinking it’s an exotic, rare plant, wanting to bring back some leaf samples home to compile in his little gay-boy pressed flora album. And suddenly, out of nowhere, a snake would come slithering out of the bush, to his feet. When Isaac was a kid, I used to try to teach him this poem about snakes: “Red before black; you’re okay, Jack. Red before yellow; you’re a dangerous fellow”; but he always thought it was stupid, and never listened to me.
This will be a red-before-yellow snake; I can’t remember what they’re called. I know that Red-before-Black is a California King Snake; I think the other is called a Coral snake. He’d see it and reach down, because he’s dumb, and would want to pick it up, because he’s dumb. Dumb. Then it would bite him – just a small bite, on the finger. But the Coral snake’s venom is very fast-acting and deadly. There’s a major blood vessel in your hands, you know – yup – and once the poison gets in there, it’d go straight to his heart. He’d yell and drop the snake, and my mom would begin to worry, that the snake may be poisonous, but she’d have no idea how fast-acting the venom is. They’d begin walking home, and my mom would decide to go to the hospital on the way home to get the bite checked out. It’d be at least two miles to the car from where they are. On the hike down the mountain Isaac would faint; the poison would have reached his heart, at last. My mother would fall to her knees, and fumble with her cell-phone trying to call 911 and explain where they are. She’d struggle to remember what the snake looked like and what the colour pattern was, when the emergency responder would inquire. In the midst of her panic, she would vaguely remember me, trying to teach the whole family about dangerous snakes. And she’d wished she had only listened.
Someone is moving near my bed. I pretend to be sleeping. Soon enough, the person leaves and I drift off to sleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the poem now stuck in my head.
“Red before black; you’re okay, Jack. Red before yellow; you’re a dangerous fellow.”

Sunlight streams through an open window into the hospital room. Abbey stirs in her bed, as a nurse bustles in for her morning check-up.
“Good morning, Abbey!” says the nurse, in an awfully chipper, sing-song voice. “Rise and shine; your parents are visiting today! And your brother might even tag along with them; won’t that be nice?”
Abbey curses the nurse under her breath, and sticks out her arm for her morning blood-test. She hates this nurse, Jessica. She hates Jessica.
Jessica looks over at Abbey’s face as she fusses with the IV and blood-bag. She looks pale, Jessica thinks, and thin; she’s been looking worse every day. And her poor parents!
Abbey wishes it were Heidi on call today; she finds coping with her parents easier, when she has Heidi’s rolling eyes to commiserate with hers. Plus, Heidi is the best, on her chemo days, and today is going to be a chemo day. After Jessica finishes the check-up, she scribbles something on her chart, and asks Abbey what she would like for breakfast. Jessica sing-songs her way out of the room, with the promise of cereal close behind her.
Abbey rolls over and looks at some of the pictures on her wall – long-term patients are allowed to decorate. There are things her friends have brought and hung up, and a family portrait. The day she was moved here, her mother hung it, as though to say, “we expect you to be here awhile.”
Around mid-day, her mother and father sneak into the room. Abbey is reading a book; she doesn’t look up. Abbey looks paler than she did last week, her mother notices.
“Hi, honey,” she says, in the same sing-song voice that Jessica is prone to using. “How’re you feeling? How’s everything? How’s the food?” she asks, trying to sound concerned.
The remnants of cereal are in a bowl by Abbey’s bed, but there’s no sign of lunch. The doctors did mention that she might lose her appetite toward the end.
“Whatcha reading, kid?” asks her dad.
“Roth,” Abbey replies, and her dad nods, approvingly.
“We’re sorry Isaac couldn’t come, hun,” says her mother, hoping Abbey won’t be too disappointed. Isaac hasn’t been here in months, but he’s just such a sensitive child; being here isn’t good for him.
“Again?” says Abbey.
“Well, he wanted to, but he was just so busy practicing for his big audition… You’re not too disappointed, are you, sweetie?”
“Not at all,” says Abbey.
“He sends his love!”
“I send mine back.”
Abbey makes a mental note to practice that fake smile her mother is so good at.

-Rachel Wing

I think he’s cheating on me with his little sister.
It’s not as incestuous as it sounds, but the worse it sounds, the worse I feel about it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jake and I were supposed to stay together forever, get married, and have adorable, little children named Alice and Henry. I never expected this ending: his leaving me for someone else, and my having to move all of my things out of his room in the middle of the year, to sleep in a bed – alone – again, to watch him fall in love with someone else more than he ever was with me. It’s not fair. Who did she think she is, taking my perfectly planned life away from me?
This girl, a freshman, was barely 18 years old, his little sister in his fraternity. I knew I should have been worried when he walked into our shared apartment on my birthday, and said, “I just met the most amazing girl!” I just looked at him.
Thank you for the wonderful birthday greeting, honey, I thought.
He saw the look on my face, hugged me, and said happy birthday, but every day after that, I could see that look in his eyes, as though he was seeing someone else – a stranger – every time he saw me. He was always thinking about her. I should have said something then; I wish I had, but I was afraid that I was reading too much into it, and I didn’t want to rock the boat.
So I said nothing.
At the end of that week, when it came time for him to pick someone as his little sister, I should have said something. He showed me her picture and I tried to show very little interest in her, in the hopes that he would think that she wasn’t that great, if I thought she wasn’t that great. In actuality, I found her quite beautiful – so much prettier than me.
So much better suited for him, whispered a voice, in the back of my head.
He chose her, though, and that was just the beginning.
He went home for the weekend, and I didn’t hear from him once. He had work, but didn’t call me on his way home like he usually did. I wondered if he was calling someone else, or if he had just forgotten about me, and I couldn’t decide which would be worse. When he got home late that Sunday night, I was already asleep in his bed, and he didn’t wake me up. He fell asleep with his laptop on. When I woke up, I found it with nothing open but Skype.
That week, he invited her over. I didn’t want to meet her. She walked into our apartment; I walked into our room. He sat with her on the couch, where our other roommates were watching a movie.
“Jenny!” he called out to me.
I ignored him, hoping he would come into the room, looking for me – hoping he would leave her side, for me.
He didn’t.
I heard him say something about my working – making excuses for me. Three hours later, when I couldn’t draw anymore, I peered out of the doorway, and saw them all watching The Lion King – and her, asleep on his shoulder. I closed the door, and I sat on the bed, writing horrible things about her in my journal. Then I left it sitting open on the bed, and went to take a shower. I wanted him to see exactly what I thought of her, and her cloying, man-stealing ways. She was in my apartment, and she was sleeping on my boyfriend’s shoulder; did she have any class or decency, at all?
When I got out of a long shower, she had left for her dorm, and I found my journal closed and sitting on my desk. He was on the bed, on his computer. He didn’t look up when I walked into our room, naked.
That should have been my first clue.
It had been a while since we had done anything in our bed, aside from sleeping next to each other. I dropped my towel, and left it in a damp heap on the floor. I shook out my long hair, still wet from my shower – he loves wet hair – and I crawled into bed, snuggled up next to him, and nipped his neck with my teeth. That was just about where I draw my kink limit, but I was desperate.
He looked down at me, sort of smiled, and said, “Hun, can you pick up your towel? I don’t want the floor getting wet.”
That should have been my second clue.
I stared at him for a minute, then got up, and did as he asked. I lingered in the bathroom, getting dressed again, in his t-shirt and boxers. I absentmindedly brushed my hair while I tried not to picture his kissing her, holding her – loving her, more than he could ever have loved me.
When I got back to the bedroom, the lights were off, and he was lying on his side with his eyes open, and his cell phone in his hand. Our eyes met, and I cast mine to the floor. He was mad at me, probably, for what I had written, but could he really blame me? He was still mine, after all. He was still mine.
I should have said something, then. I should have apologized for what I’d written, or maybe just explained why I’d written it. But I didn’t. I said nothing.
Instead, I got into bed and made a wall between us with the extra pillows. He didn’t turn around. I sort of wished he would, but I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t. I never slept that close to him. He was uncomfortable to sleep on, with his arm under my neck and my being all balled up at his side.
I bet she’s the kind of girl who likes to sleep all cuddled up next to someone, I thought to myself; I bet she’s the kind of girl that he sometimes wishes I would be. I bet she’s just a phase.
A couple of days later, it was his birthday, his big, 21st birthday, even though Jake never drank all that much. Our roommate, Taylor, had insisted on taking him to a club in downtown LA to celebrate. Naturally, Jake insisted on inviting her. I mustered up all the courage I had and asked him not to. As soon as the question left my lips, he looked me straight in the eyes and asked me why. I should have said something, then, but instead, I mumbled about wanting it to just be us. He barked out a laugh, and said, “yeah, us, and a hundred other sweaty dancing couples.” He ran his hand down my hair, patronizingly, and walked away. I should have said something, then, but I didn’t.
When she showed up the next night, I was still getting dressed, so I didn’t get to see the look on his face when she walked through the door, but I bet it was something to see. She was dressed like a whore. Unfortunately, she was dressed like a very classy and beautiful whore; her dress was just short enough to fall into the whore category, and I was planning to cling to that.
We got to the club; people were dancing; lights were flashing; the music had more beat than melody, and was pounding around the club as though it was trying to break down the walls. Taylor ran off to dance in the center of the floor. Jake glanced at me, glanced at her, grabbed both of our hands, and followed him. When we got into the midst of the thronging, dancing group, Taylor grabbed her and pulled her away from us, as though I had asked him to.
She seemed to be a good sport about it, at first, laughing and dancing with Taylor, but not for long. All too soon, she was back next to us, and suddenly Jake was playing host to two dance partners. There she was, twisting and dancing like the whore her dress proclaimed her to be, up against my boyfriend. I had to do something. I wrenched my hand out of his, pushed her off of him, and dragged him off the floor. He followed me willingly, but he gave me a look, as though he had just found out that his girlfriend murders puppies.
We broke up that night, in a corner of the club, because of her. I told him to stop hanging out with her, that I didn’t trust her, that I loved him. And he said he thought we just weren’t really right for each other, anymore. That’s what I got for saying something.
This all happened a couple years ago. Jake and Rachel are still together and I’m dating someone too. They’re very happy together. Jake and I still see each other, sometimes. We talk and work together over the summers. Rachel works with us too; she thinks I like her; I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t understand why, but I’m nice enough that she believes it. They both think that I’m still friends with them, that I’m fine with what happened, and that I’m over it. But I’ve just been waiting, biding my time, saying nothing.

-Rachel Wing

This is not America. This is not the America I used to know. I grew up learning that our country was built on the foundations of freedom of expression and humane justice. Along with my fellow citizens, I believed that we were quite fortunate to be able to speak so freely without having to live in constant fear of retribution from the government.

Everything changed after September eleventh, however; the progressive right of freedom of expression became compromised. Lawmakers approved motions to invade Iraq and Afghanistan during the length of the new millennium; practically anyone who might have held an economically competitive advantage became an enemy of the state. Our basic rights had been so stifled over time, that the President signed away all of our freedoms on the fourth of May, 2012, with the National Defense Authorization Act.

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His disheveled hair flailed in the wind, gusts of wind stroke his face with severe blows. No one knew, not really, that as he walked the ground welcomed his every step and also absorbed the fatigue of the long day’s work. He walked along the sand path with all the effort of an old man fighting against all the elements, his clothes heavy with sweat. The afternoon sun painted his shadow along the sand path.

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