I've started a LifeJournal community page for the Dexter 100-Word Drabble Challenge
. Check back on the 1st and 15th of every month to get a new prompt and read other fics from across the fandom! Entries can be humorously, sadly, romantically, tenderly and (of course) darkly Dexter. But they have to be exactly 100 words.
It seems that I do
maybe once a week
the things I wish
I could do every day.
Time slips away
from my fingers and eyes
resulting in lists
of projects not done.
Memory tells me
the thing happened recently.
Reality and others tell me
the truth is further ago.
If wishes were fishes
I would forget to put them in the fridge
and by the time I remembered
they would be rotten.
I have a mental timetable
of things I would like to do every day
but there are not enough minutes in the day
given my spoons supply.
It's not that I can't find you. On days like today, you are absolutely everywhere for me and I find you in the clouds, at the drive-thru, on the sidewalk like loose change, in my pockets having survived the spin cycle. I find you tangled in the fringe of my eyelashes; I find you wound round the laces of an oldfavorite pair of shoes. I don't miss you, and when I find you, I don't welcome you back. I hear my own words echoing down a long dark mental hallway: Of course I never wanted you. I always had you.
(tides, tides, tides)
I am singing the same song of a thousand girls before me. I am the rock hiding amidst eight million other rocks. I am peering from behind the tree trunks at what once was, and telling myself that I will be safer and happier if I would just keep on walking... yet I can't stop looking back. I am trussed up in cinnamon dental floss with flowered celery, herbs, and onions. I am trying so hard. I am losing the faith.
I need an ocean to remind me that
flying is still my means to an end.
Every time I hear about jobs lost, jobs cut, firings, layoffs, downsizing, or economic acclimation, I freeze somewhere inside. I’ve lost faith in it-has-to-get-better and even in it-has-to-get-worse-before-it-gets-better. Although I hate the billboards praying that our state become less dependent on a single industry, I give a wry grimace. And I begin to panic about every personal decision that keeps me on this sinking ship—America, the sinking ship, or Michigan, or even Ann Arbor, the sinking ship. Everything I have is here, I tell my frozen, panicked self. It echoes hollowly inside. Everything I have is not much.
The thing I miss most, today, is walking on campus. My freshman year, I biked. I couldn't stand to "waste time" walking. By my senior year, walking was a refuge, glorious minutes alone with my thoughts. I walked to class in the morning rain, I walked to the parking lot in the afternoon bluster, and I walked home from work in the 2 AM stillness, catching snowflakes on my tongue. I thought about my day, my friends, my future, my feet in their purple boots. If I thought about the past at all back then, it was only to laugh.
Ani'd look at me over the tops of her Lennons, cigarette in her lips, hair wildly uncombed. She'd look incredulous most of the time, disbelieving that I could be so very, disbelieving that she could love it so much. When she laughed, her nose scrunched and ashes fell to her chest, waiting there for my coy pointed glance. She drove my stickshift; at the top of the hill, I tied a thrift-store scarf, orange and aqua, over her hazelgreen eyes. Sancho! we said, and cracked each other up. In the Cincinnati sun of the moment, we were living the dream.
I miss sitting on your balcony, holding warm cups of coffee and sucking on cigarettes. "These are so terrible for us." "I know, but this is the best part of my day." We both nod and smile, and enjoy how quiet the city is. I can still feel the cool, fresh morning air in my lungs, taste the tobacco, smell your fresh 100% Columbian blend. I can still hear your laugh and see your smile, so similar to my own. Some days I would do anything to have those mornings back, but things are so different now.
I miss you.
Thinking about sex too often can be hazardous to your health. I should know, because I almost got in a three-way accident in front of my house today. Not that
kind of three-way, naughty mind, a real one with trading-insurance-info-with-two-pissed-o
ff-people kind. The irony is, however, that I was
fantasizing about the naughty kind of three-way, which my boyfriend had proposed just hours before, over breakfast. The double irony is, though, that the idea of a three-way with my boyfriend wasn't appealing. I had two beautiful strangers on my mind.
wfft wfft wfft
- the brush through her hair. i just think you oughta try harder, she says. try? i say. try? try for what? something, she says, on the bed, one knee up, black pants, blue corset, wfft wfft wfft
. anything. i know what i need, i say. i fall on the bed next to her, looking straight up. i don’t need to try. i need to give up. she stands suddenly, mouth tight, eyes down, lips dark, toes curling, wfft wfft wfft
. i wait. give up, she snorts. wfft wfft wfft
. you haven’t got anything worth giving up.