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 diamonds
with perfect exteriors--
we are fractured, as we
realize hourglasses can be exchanged
for quartz watches that are
faster, more convenient,
incapable of failure
made by the obsolete.
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,
she could emanate happiness, too)
she breathes fluttery, feather-soft breaths
into his chest as he holds her,
and he whispers,
pigeon, I know.
The PatientEric 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," said Eric, his grin fading. "I've been feeling alright physically.... I figure it might have to do with stress at work."
Dr. Chang made some quick notes on his clipboard and nodded. "Yes, stress is a common cause of insomnia. Remind me, what is it you do for a living?"
"Accounting. The work just keeps piling up. It seems like I never have enough time, y'know?"
The doctor nodded again. He crouched down to Eric's level and pulled out a stethoscope. "Breath in deep," he sai
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 their feet will walk today in their heads before even setting foot into the building.
They do not have time to stop, their brief lulls of quiet and peace spent on mindless machines, calculating tedious sums, running through the same tired sequence in their little cubicles. They type slowly, fingers tapping keys almost reluctantly, not wanting to t