Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
This is part of a short story I wrote last year for my creative writing class.
Probably the first time Ram saw her he was seventeen. He was examining the way his hands looked in the light of that hour, which was about eight on a warm August evening, while sitting on a red bench just outside the library. He thought August always had the best light of the year. Its light was the orangest, or the pinkest, or the deepest blue, or the most golden, piercing yellow at any given hour of the day. And though he had never been out of Turlock, he was sure it was the only place the sun ever shown in its most dazzling colors.
Probably it was the colors that the sun made on her skin that made his breath catch. But he would swear later it was her beauty and not the sun’s. He had never seen her before. The city’s two only public high schools couldn’t boast ever having taught her. Its strawberry fields had never been picked to satisfy her cravings. Its cobblestone streets downtown were never sorry for tripping her, or had ever tripped her, for that matter.
Ram went to her where she was surrounded by a deep marigold light in front of the library, sudden drops of sweat gathering on his tanned forehead, recalled that poem by Walt Whitman (To a Stranger) and, defying it, said “Hello.”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
And what surrounds me...
The hope of a love, unrequited anything, the scent of rain in the summer and of breath, the residue from good or bad dreams, a kind of haze that wraps the brain and the fingertips and the toes, delusions of grandeur or otherwise, sounds like wake up and shallow breath and stretching.
These, and the likes of these are made by the heart by the heartbeat by the blood. These, and the likes of these appear before tired eyes before long eyelashes before slow moving lids. These, and the likes of these are felt by tingling skin by pink lips by matted hair.