I could feel her.
"I feel lost."
"I know you do, but I’ll fix it. Ok?"
"It’s like when you’re little and you get lost in a busy supermarket…"
"I’ll find you. I promise babe."
"Why’d you lose me in the first place?"
"You got stuck in the toys aisle and it was time for me to check out the hardware department…"
submitted by whimsicalenlightenment
"Just forget it."
Have you ever noticed how different buildings look upside-down? How your perception is deceptively reconfigured by your line of sight?
The trees drip from the sky. Flags fly below half-mast. People climb out of doors and walk on air.
The campus lawn is illuminated electric with spotlights, as if waiting for dancers. Sometimes I see her out here, sometimes I don’t.
I sit upright and everything returns to normal again.
Except tonight I don’t see her.
I mean, I know it’s only fall here. My first real fall, with leaves that change colors and die in the most elegant spiraling way. But, even though it’s only fall here..
Maybe not for everyone else, walking around in tee shirts and jeans.
It’s freezing, the kind of cold where you can’t get warm, no matter what you do. I drink coffee, I drink tea. I’m bundled up to here in sweaters and leg warmers and I bring a blanket with me to every class. A blanket from home. It’s not cold there, in the California sun. But here, it’s cold. So I sit in the big drafty lecture hall, shivering so much that my handwriting is almost illegible and my teeth chatter and my knees shake, adding percussion to the rhythmic scratching of pencils. A soundtrack for my dreams about being warm from the inside out.
submitted by ofapeculiarsort
I was late getting to campus.
My roommate had pushed both beds together as his own and I don’t understand how he could have slept like that, always slipping between the crack.
"So where are you from?" He has a southern drawl. I told him Europe and his eyes lit up. I could already hear all of his questions and the space between my eyes began to ache.
As he questioned me and I moved my bed to its proper spot, he rubbed the small of his back. We had similar ailments, just not for the same reasons.
I had questions for him but I didn’t ask them. I seemed to be invading on something he had come to be familiar with.
I called home but no one picked up on the other end.
Whether it’s ailments or answers, everything is just ‘waiting’.
Everyone is freaking out because it’s homecoming weekend and the Bulldogs are playing but I don’t know who. Not that I really care either. Bodies rush past my door in a blur of blue and green—our team’s colors. A face materializes at the frame of the door.
"Todd, are you coming? You’re gonna be late."
I don’t know who this person is.
"In a minute."
"Okay," he says, slapping the door with his palm before sliding into the fray.
I put a sweatshirt on—the away team’s, I think—and step into the rush.
I don’t even have a date for this.
All I want to do is to be a writer. Are my lungs good enough to sustain that career? I feel better making paper cranes for people who cannot have hearts big enough to fit their chests. They swell and the wind sometimes takes me by surprise. Everyone knows that there is nothing that I am really good at. Through the years, I’ve discarded the pages of notebooks that I treasured as though they were clothes and there were ravenous purposes left in bedrooms. You know, it’s strange. Not many people realize that human beings are great harbourers of scars. We walk around as though we were settled deep in some kind of philosophical tussle with Kant or Aquinas, but we are nothing but liquid and moving brains. We are very few and far between. Underneath all our lies and baby clothes, we are set in the uncertain heel of a woman crossing the road. She doesn’t dance on the life painted in the middle of the street.
I’m standing here waiting for an elevator to reach the second floor. I’m three minutes away from a class and a career and a life that I don’t want. Do I complain? Who can I complain to? So instead, every morning, I wake up and duct tape my lips tight and walk around pavements as though I am a victim of an antifreeze hit and run accident. Everyone has somebody that they’re looking for. I have a body. Now I need a some.
submitted by pavorst
You can see the stars in central
Pennsylvania. Unlike the suburb just
outside of Kansas City that raised
me, it’s possible here to look up into
that vast abyss of white fiery
masses and spot the constellations we
can only read about back in the
There, too many streetlights litter
our roads, and downtown’s Power and
Light district reaches across the
twenty-minute drive to my neighborhood,
making viewing this age-old
vision an impossible task. But
I still tried.
Returning at three AM from
a P&L bar, I stood in the middle of the
dead end I live by and looked straight up. There
was nothing in the sky for me that
night, but turning back to the ground that
city confined me to, I saw brighter
stars than they’ve got here—headlights, the
driver showing no sign of pausing to
consider their blinding stars’ effect on
version of me.
In PA, I can see the
stars when I’m sober.
submitted by thatmissourigirl
This post is about letting you writers out there know that you can submit to Greenlinde and let your work be read by others. Tired of rejection? I know I am (and with the ladies…), so, tell us your story.
Just follow the rules detailed after you click ‘Submit’ on Greenlinde’s homepage and there should be no problem!
Spread the word! Reblog this to let the writers know that we will not reject them!
Vernon and Todd