experimental literature
picket fences aren’t something I ever thought I’d long for
and I can’t remember the last time I saw one.
I used to live around a few houses that had them
and I always heard people talk about them.
I never really thought there was anything spectacular about them,
but here I am
thinking about them.
This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
sitting in the office,
I turn around and look out the window
the blue-headed bird, the common grackle
picks through the mulch
searching for a meal.
This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
A stone well in the center of town
long-abandoned
bone dry
This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
Standing on the corner where we would part ways, we stopped walking and turned towards each other. It was beginning to rain. We said our farewells, and she seemed like she would be receptive to a kiss, so I leaned in and our lips met. We stopped for a moment, I pulled her head towards mine and kissed again.
I’d never see her again. It hadn’t been a particularly bad date, but not a particularly good one, either. Neither of us would attempt to contact one another again. She was cute and smart, I could even say funny, but we just didn’t really click. I had to go in for the second kiss to be sure, though. No sparks flew.
Then again, some relationships just seem to be a matter of being able to tolerate someone half the time and loving them the other half. Do sparks have to fly at the start?
Two people meet. Sparks fly. Their sparks ignite one another–a burning passion spreads. Their fire roars until all that is left is ashes. Is this how things are supposed to work?
This story is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
Waiting is the worst feeling. Harold has spent the last 9 months on a scheme that has not worked out. See, all Harold wants in life is to paint. People ask, “What would you do if you didn’t need to worry about money?” And Harold says, “Paint,” without a moment’s hesitation.
But painters aren’t known for making money, so Harold determined he would find an online part-time job to be able to pay all his bills, and then he’d be relying on his art and his meager savings for food. He realized all of this about 6 months into his first corporate job.
He found a decent online job teaching English, but the hiring process took quite a long time. First, he was insecure about the plan in general and wasn’t sure he even wanted to do the work. He decided to apply and found that his room wasn’t lit well enough to make videos. He also needed some props and things to have in the background. Harold’s full-time job sucked the life from him, so Harold only had an hour or two a week to get all prepared.
He got the teaching space set up, was able to pass the entry tests, and then finally signed the contract. It had been months. Then, the teaching platform transitioned from a browser-based technology to a desktop application that was not compatible with his operating system. Just in time to make him have to cancel his first lesson.
After a month and a half of saving, his full-time job still wasn’t bringing in enough for him to get that new computer. In that month and a half, the paint supply shop that Harold used exclusively went out business.
Worn down, Harold decided he needed a break from all of his planning and trying to improve his life. He determined he should just accept the life he was in. He stopped thinking about ways he could get a better life right then, and just started hoping he’d be able to paint and sell some paintings in his free time until it made him enough to quit his day job someday.
A year goes by and he has a thousand-mile-stare into his computer screen every day. Every month, he says it will just be another few months. Every now and then, he gets a raise. When the joy of the extra money wears off, when the drudgery still ends up being drudgery, he’s offered a new role at work. And the cycle repeats.
The next thing Harold knows, twenty years have passed and he’s working on the same painting. He hasn’t touched it in years. His youth was decidedly over. Eventually, the company he wasted his youth at lets him go so they can drain the youth from someone younger.
Harold, weary of the world, stops on the bridge he’s walked across every day on his commute the past 20 years. He climbs the guard rail, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. He opens them to find himself 28 again, considering how many other painting supply shops must be in town and how long he would have to paint outside of work.
This story is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
Sitting here, fidgeting, waiting for life to pass me by I guess. Are we still going to that bookstore today? I don’t know if I even want to leave the house, much less go buy more books when I have so many I haven’t read yet. I feel weird about seeing her. Are we just friends, or is this something else? She’s moving away soon and I feel like I should see her, but I feel like we mostly misunderstand each other.
Who knows what anything means if we don’t talk about it. And I don’t actually want to talk about it with her. Because she’s leaving and I’ve got other people in my life now. How many times have we even seen each other? How long ago was the last time? Maybe the last time should be the last time.
*
And so we rescheduled. She was hungover, the sale wasn’t even happening. And then it was storming the day we rescheduled. We didn’t set another plan. I don’t really like to plan more than a week out. And yet I’m booked solid a week out. And if things go smoothly in all other aspects of my life, things will probably remain booked solid.
And so what can be said of her? I never felt any animosity towards her. I think we stopped seeing each other romantically and sexually based on a texting conversation that I’m fairly certain neither of us understood what the other was saying. We had a day out together as friends and nothing more once, and it did feel right. But she moves away in a month, and I can’t help but think that we never really knew each other all that well. What song will bring me back to this moment? I don’t think there will be one.
This story is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.
I’m getting tired of the Imaginary Landscapes thing. Rather than working on each one for a week, I end up writing it one day and reviewing and publishing it the next. I’m going to embrace this and my next set of stories will just be whatever comes out of my stream of consciousness.
Every morning, Mary would do the same thing. She’d wake up, stretch, meditate for a few moments, write in her journal, and head out to the beach for a morning walk.
She did this in any weather. Hot mornings, stormy mornings, wintry mornings.
“I just don’t feel myself without my morning constitutional,” she would say. “Some days, the sky will have a twinge of purple and the sea will be green.”
Mary noticed the weather changing just like everyone else. She was worried about climate change, but just like everyone else, stuck to her route.
“There’s no way I could live somewhere else,” she said.
And one morning, she was swallowed up by the green sea during the seasonal hurricane.
This story is part of a series of travel stories set in Imaginary Landscapes.
I reached the top of the hill and across the plains, over the forest, I could see the city. Home. Gentle pillars or smoke were floating out from the neighborhoods and I could feel the warmth from those distant hearths. I figured the sunlight would last me until my arrival, and I would finally have a night off the ground.
I had been on the road for months. I no longer recall what I set out looking for. With such a tight focus, I lost sight of what I was looking at. The next thing I knew, I was on my way home.
I started down the hill and a feeling of dread began to sink in. It was summer, it was warm, those pillars of smoke were not from fireplaces.
As I descended down the hill, into the forest, I lost sight of the city. I got through the woods, and in the last few rays of sunlight, I could see smoldering piles of rubble where the city had once stood.
This story is part of a series of travel stories set in Imaginary Landscapes.
The dim light made the coffee appear to be completely black. She took a sip and a slight reflection of her face came into view. Just a snapshot of her the space between her upper lip and her nose. She set the cup down and let out an audible sigh. The coffee was still warm and felt nice in the relative cold of the cave.
Another sip.
With her coffee finished, she felt guilty sitting there much longer. There were always people waiting for a table. Sure enough, as soon as she began to show signs of beginning to leave, she was flanked by a few people she assumed to be on a date asking if she was leaving. Outside the cave, with a belly full of coffee, she continued along the trail.
This story is part of a series of travel stories set in Imaginary Landscapes.