Daily Lit Deviations for November 5th, 2012
LingerieEvery woman owns one garment
that remains tucked away,
saved for special occasions
when it will be seen.
It is almost always midnight
black, or blood red, and
covered in lace, or made
of mesh, soft and delicate
as the skin it covers.
Such things should be hidden,
lest the owner be labeled
as something other than "lady."
It has a power we can't
control, one that transforms
denim and cotton clad
ragdolls into Barbies,
perfectly proportioned plastic,
smooth and flawless hourglasses
that turn on command.
We groan and flinch
as satin strings pull us
apart and together,
and heartstrings are plucked
as we scrutinize our reflection;
we are not
he says with a smile
like somehow, he already knows
she's been sad for a while.
and she just looks at him,
with her brokenhearted bambi eyes
and she hopes that he understands
because nobody understands,
pigeon, he says,
and he does.
he knows that deep in her heart,
she just isn't happy.
not today, not yesterday,
and maybe not even tomorrow.
he knows that she wants to be happy,
wants to know what it's like
to be filled with sunshine
(and he thinks maybe that's why
she loves sunflowers so very much.
because she thinks they exude sunlight,
and maybe, just maybe,
if she were bright yellow
The Patient Eric sat alone in the sterile white room, humming a tune and tapping his foot in an attempt to pass the time. He looked around the small room for a clock. Finding none, he frowned. Hadn't there been a clock the last time he was here?
The door opened and a man walked in. He had black hair and a starched coat, the same pristine white as the walls. Eric looked up at him and smiled.
"Ah, Dr. Chang!" he said brightly.
"Mr. Eric Fleming. You look well. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, I've been having trouble sleeping. I've been feeling alright physically . I figure it might have to do with stress at work," said Eric, his grin fa
The MassThese people are moving, always moving. Bustling into the office with tall, mundane stacks of paperwork, carrying uniformly brown suitcases with secure locks to protect the trivial information inside that they think is important. Always moving, always flowing, in and out, through the hallways and passages of the office, into rooms of tall grey filing cabinets, through myriad doors, never stopping, never ceasing. They are hurried, but their blank eyes stay fixed on the same point throughout their journey. They rush with an ease that suggests that they follow the same routine day after day, week after week. They can map out the entire path that