Scattered
Long Pieces Continued
Greenhouse, by Lily French (cont'd)
They are bygone relics.
Bygone as the unopened red-wax-embossed-envelopes spilling from stack to shamble.
In the middle of this overgrown cocoon is a cat. A cat with a long ivory beard and a honeyed gaze. He blinks lethargically at a shattered vase, its cracks sealed by liquid gold, clasping anciently-evaporated roses. A tale of lost lovers and a romance wrung out to dry.
He blinks at the weeping willow, curtained branches bowing in the breeze, uncontained by crystal panels, its roots twining the earthen floor. A ward of bees drone in, pollen dusting their wings, and the flowers, and the willow’s swaying leaves.
He blinks at the old lady. She is swaying too. Swaying in a wicker rocking chair with creases about her face like crumpled and recrumpled paper when she smiles. Smiles absently at the ivory cat and his honeyed gaze.
Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.
Milling her herbs. A mortar and pestle. Maybe this time she will see again. Maybe this time her forget-me-not eyes will clear of milk-white clouds. Clouds as gossamer as a spider web splayed delicate and desolate on twinkling wind chimes.
She is buried beneath a hidden mind.
There are missing pieces.
Scattered salt in the sea.
There is something.
Something Important.
But she cannot remember.
She is the decaying daffodil cupping forgotten rain, feeling memories cascade through her fingers like water droplets.
The cat with his long ivory beard and honeyed gaze meows.
The bluebells ring.
The grandfather clock
Tick-
Tick-
Ticks three minutes behind.
The wind chime sings.
And she cannot remember.
What is it that she cannot remember?
Bygone as the unopened red-wax-embossed-envelopes spilling from stack to shamble.
In the middle of this overgrown cocoon is a cat. A cat with a long ivory beard and a honeyed gaze. He blinks lethargically at a shattered vase, its cracks sealed by liquid gold, clasping anciently-evaporated roses. A tale of lost lovers and a romance wrung out to dry.
He blinks at the weeping willow, curtained branches bowing in the breeze, uncontained by crystal panels, its roots twining the earthen floor. A ward of bees drone in, pollen dusting their wings, and the flowers, and the willow’s swaying leaves.
He blinks at the old lady. She is swaying too. Swaying in a wicker rocking chair with creases about her face like crumpled and recrumpled paper when she smiles. Smiles absently at the ivory cat and his honeyed gaze.
Back
and forth.
Back
and forth.
Milling her herbs. A mortar and pestle. Maybe this time she will see again. Maybe this time her forget-me-not eyes will clear of milk-white clouds. Clouds as gossamer as a spider web splayed delicate and desolate on twinkling wind chimes.
She is buried beneath a hidden mind.
There are missing pieces.
Scattered salt in the sea.
There is something.
Something Important.
But she cannot remember.
She is the decaying daffodil cupping forgotten rain, feeling memories cascade through her fingers like water droplets.
The cat with his long ivory beard and honeyed gaze meows.
The bluebells ring.
The grandfather clock
Tick-
Tick-
Ticks three minutes behind.
The wind chime sings.
And she cannot remember.
What is it that she cannot remember?
A Dark Chasm Filled With Spikes, by Jesse Schmidt (cont'd)
I only see their faces after they lose
If they win, they leave through a different door
When they leave that room that so many have left, they are different
Completely dull
Like if clay was a person
Everything interesting about them has been stolen
To be fair, they knew the risks
The Smiling Man
No one knows anything about him
I’ve seen him
I myself have played the game
I won
Why don’t I remember the game?
Well, to avoid cheating, he erases the memory of what the game is
That’s all
I do remember him though
He didn’t have a body
Just a face
Dark, hollow eyes
A wide smile
Full of the sharpest teeth
Nothing else
Just a hole, with spikes around it
He will never be found
No one will ever remember
The Smiling Man’s Game
If they win, they leave through a different door
When they leave that room that so many have left, they are different
Completely dull
Like if clay was a person
Everything interesting about them has been stolen
To be fair, they knew the risks
The Smiling Man
No one knows anything about him
I’ve seen him
I myself have played the game
I won
Why don’t I remember the game?
Well, to avoid cheating, he erases the memory of what the game is
That’s all
I do remember him though
He didn’t have a body
Just a face
Dark, hollow eyes
A wide smile
Full of the sharpest teeth
Nothing else
Just a hole, with spikes around it
He will never be found
No one will ever remember
The Smiling Man’s Game
Through the Wind, I Am the Messiah, by Jesse Schmidt (cont'd)
The Ones In The Wind
They were displaced
He is trying to make them whole again
Make them one
Society restored
Their society
The Ones In The Wind cling to tradition
At least, the ones I have seen
They pray to him
They have altars
Of course, without a photo
There are no cameras
They carry revolvers similar to his, and dispatch any heretics they come across
They are very liberal with the definition of heretic
They believe he gives them strength
They believe he will reunite them under one roof
One government
One nation
One religion
His
Slaves in all but name
I believe he does want this
Whether that is a good or bad thing is another matter
For now, I only seek to observe
The “man” who carries the mythical name:
Happy Chaos
They were displaced
He is trying to make them whole again
Make them one
Society restored
Their society
The Ones In The Wind cling to tradition
At least, the ones I have seen
They pray to him
They have altars
Of course, without a photo
There are no cameras
They carry revolvers similar to his, and dispatch any heretics they come across
They are very liberal with the definition of heretic
They believe he gives them strength
They believe he will reunite them under one roof
One government
One nation
One religion
His
Slaves in all but name
I believe he does want this
Whether that is a good or bad thing is another matter
For now, I only seek to observe
The “man” who carries the mythical name:
Happy Chaos
Sonder, by Lily French (cont'd)
Stony-faced people locking eyes with astonished infants
And smiling
Telling the waiter that you hope he enjoys his food too
How embarrassing
Inhaling the scent of a new book’s ink
Did you sigh in contentment?
A childhood entertained by raindrops on car windows
Mine will win for sure
Rising to an alarm clock, it is too early, just a minute more
You fell asleep again
Dashing up a flight of stairs and encountering another person
Did you try to breathe quieter?
Entering a room with purpose, the pinnacle of determination
You immediately forget what you were searching for, right?
We are complex and baffling
We are unique and the same at once
We are a million moments
We are scattered bits of stardust sifted into bodies
This is humanity
And smiling
Telling the waiter that you hope he enjoys his food too
How embarrassing
Inhaling the scent of a new book’s ink
Did you sigh in contentment?
A childhood entertained by raindrops on car windows
Mine will win for sure
Rising to an alarm clock, it is too early, just a minute more
You fell asleep again
Dashing up a flight of stairs and encountering another person
Did you try to breathe quieter?
Entering a room with purpose, the pinnacle of determination
You immediately forget what you were searching for, right?
We are complex and baffling
We are unique and the same at once
We are a million moments
We are scattered bits of stardust sifted into bodies
This is humanity
Shards, by Julia Sampaio (cont'd)
She readjusted herself as she reached her arm out to grab the cranberry sauce. Suddenly, her younger cousin bumped into her shoulder as he sneaked past her to try to leave the table, making her lurch forward. As she instinctively retracted her arm to catch herself, her elbow roughly knocked into her aunt’s wine glass. Wine flew everywhere—over the new white table cloth, the wall, her grandmother’s beige blouse—and the shrill sound of breaking glass filled the dinner hall, silencing everyone’s words.
Everyone turned to look at her, expressions ranging from confusion and pity to anger and disappointment. There was a moment of silence as everyone glared at her, only the sound of heavy breathing coming from her grandmother filling the room. She plopped back down into her seat and stared at the scattered pieces of glass on the table cloth. She wished she could just disappear; avoid the inevitable onslaught of yelling, criticisms, and accusations to come.
“Why did you do that?!”
“I told you this would happen.”
“How are you this uncoordinated?”
She just continued to stare at the scattered shards. Wasn’t it incredible, she thought, a miracle even, that those broken, sharp pieces had ever come together to form a gorgeous wine glass? Smooth and gleaning on the outside, yet so fragile in its structure that it was one elbow away from breaking into a million pieces.
Everyone turned to look at her, expressions ranging from confusion and pity to anger and disappointment. There was a moment of silence as everyone glared at her, only the sound of heavy breathing coming from her grandmother filling the room. She plopped back down into her seat and stared at the scattered pieces of glass on the table cloth. She wished she could just disappear; avoid the inevitable onslaught of yelling, criticisms, and accusations to come.
“Why did you do that?!”
“I told you this would happen.”
“How are you this uncoordinated?”
She just continued to stare at the scattered shards. Wasn’t it incredible, she thought, a miracle even, that those broken, sharp pieces had ever come together to form a gorgeous wine glass? Smooth and gleaning on the outside, yet so fragile in its structure that it was one elbow away from breaking into a million pieces.