Two twisted souls dressed up as divine lovers who complete each other without knowing it, and yet they keep their emotions back because they cannot bear to admit their co-dependence. Is it cultural differences that sacrifice our love in the end? Is it the scorn that one is invited to inflict upon the other person?
The middle C note replied, “Because I’m forced to work too much because I’m so damn popular. I should be paid more than any other key because of all the extra work I do. You all should revere me. I’m on strike for fair pay.”
—a simple substitution:
college algebra. Ex equals
fewer hours spent making meals, shaping squared notes
of eight and a half by eleven
But now it appeared that Bill had nothing left to share. He hadn’t wanted to hear any protestations after he ordered her a last salted caramel muffin and cappuccino at this very coffee shop just the day before and insisted on paying. He’d left when his mug was only half empty, after he mentioned again that she was likely to have a lovely future.
The poor thing is already dead, she reminds herself, it can’t feel a thing. It’s like cutting off hair, or fingernails, completely painless and guilt free. Once she is satisfied with the presentation of the bait, Alma retreats to the safety of the lawn to wait.
Upon this taut
And tangled page, find
Written a history of
Mighty winds to come.
Calling upon the connection between memory and nostalgia Wong Kar-Wai replays a bygone love affair in his seventh film, In the Mood for Love.
It was comfortable in all the typically uncomfortable places, and uncomfortable in all the comfortable places. We weren’t much for being vulnerable. We knew a lot about the other but wouldn’t dig. At the time, my Grandpa was in the hospital and I knew his brother was going through something. We’d take the calls from family in different rooms and return to the other to make a joke.
You found the shell as you were sifting through the sand. It was clean and ivory white, the edges were worn down from friction and life. You admired the uniqueness of the shell, put it in my hand, and said to give it to the kids.
Children cartwheel like gulls
pecking at sand in tide pools,
squawking claims over curious crustaceans.
Mama had put the box of tree paints on my bed. It was marked by my green fingerprints from years before. I put my hand over them and remembered being so small, and Grandmama teaching me to paint the Christmas tree on the wall, her hand placing mine on the brush, her smell of onions cooked to caramel. She was so old, that I thought she’d lived when the trees were.
Rest in peace cheerleading tryouts and Burnie Norris.
Now, you can get McMuffins all day
and McRibs in November.
I stand alone, looking
across layers
of the ruffled horizon, fearing
it might come too early,
too soon
His left behind footprints fill with snow faster than she can keep up, and her heart races. She wishes he would hear the sound and slow down, but it is not possible. It’s never possible, even in the quietest of spaces, for him to hear her heartbeat.
We'll be open for submissions for the rest of the month, then closed for June. We need One Perfect Episode and It's Good, Actually submissions, so if you've got something, send it our way!
His attention had found solace in the revelatory multiverses of science fiction novels and detective noir pulp paperbacks. When the headaches came, he'd need breaks, but after a couple of years, the neat little collection of tomes had been digested. Since then, he'd preferred the silence. Without a television, the windows from his home became ersatz network primetime viewing, morning shows, reality programming and everything else.
Enclosed by those imperfect walls my mother spent her days hiding behind the rectangular, wide body of the General Electric refrigerator. She sat in silence while her crocheting needles moved effortlessly, choking the red and black yarn into tight stitches. Her misery clung to her like a cocoon, all enveloping and difficult to shed.
First of all, growing up is challenging. In fact, maturing into a fully-realized person separates that person from childhood. Since life itself is already hard enough as it is, taking on the real world takes courage, strength, and determination. Furthermore, some critics and audiences would criticize Disney heroines as being too docile and immature. Nevertheless, Disney’s Rapunzel is a compelling example of a modern woman within the Disney canon.
We passed all the run-of-the-mill carnival rides and trailer games: bumper cars, carpet slides, swings, and a fun house mixed among the baseball pins, rings and bottles, spinning wheel, and rubber duckies. A crowd gathered at the air rifle targets with the steady rat-tat-tat of bbs piercing paper.
This is what helps make Ratatouille so special. It is an animated picture, meaning that many adults watching it will scoff at it, believing it to be childish. But those who grew up watching it, like me, see the internal message it talks about. It’s a story that does not look down upon its audience, and instead uses their common understanding of the storytelling medium to inspire future generations of artists and storytellers. What may have been seen as an initial hindrance in their form of delivering said message suddenly becomes one of their greatest strengths, providing a wide demographic to inspire. I look at my colleagues who grew up with the film as well, and I see their own works of art built off of their own childhoods and inspirations. It is not always Ratatouille acting as inspiration, but the message stands nonetheless. These works all have the potential to change the landscape of their medium, and possibly the world.