Literature-Accepted

The tenant’s Muzak, a muffled shouting, indignant, accusatory, dissipated throughout the entryway of a weary building. There he stood at his door, staring blankly at the forms and shadows in the apartment. He relieved himself, then stumbled across the twilight to cabinet above the refrigerator. A glass bottle stood there, a thin layer of dust stuck to its curves, and now his fingers. And all of this, playing all of these stupid games, for this little bit to be mine. It’s small enough to fit in my pocket. “I thought she understood me…” he squeaked, then rocked back a shot of cheap vodka. It was akin to dragging his tongue across the floorboard of a railcar. “I’m such a lightweight…Drinks were a terrible idea, anyways.” His mind had spiraled on the metro ride home. His steeled body jarred and bounced between guardrail and corrugated wood until he found a seat, only to be plucked once again… Today was supposed to have been his day. He was to finally take his shot.

What will you leave behind when the time comes for you to part? Many of us want to be remembered in some way. To leave just the tiniest seed on this mortal coil. An imprint as evidence that we were once here. If nothing more than a single drop in a limitless ocean. To continue to live on inside the memory of others. This is sought by all but achieved by few because many of us die before we begin to live. The word legacy can be interpreted in a different number of ways. Some may choose to pass it on through their children. Others by the way they lived their life or how they lived their life for others. If nothing else. My desire is to dedicate my life to my stories (selfish as that sounds). For they are a reflection of my innermost thoughts and feelings that mayeth be immortalized. If there is such a thing as fate, an immovable destiny if you will. Then this is mine. I want to leave behind something that can be viewed, analyzed, interpreted, and experienced for years long after I'm

For as long as I can remember. I've always had a pretty active imagination. I always liked creating stories. Always full of ideas and what not. And effectively wanting to share these ideas, these stories with people. I just want to utilize my writing as a means of expression. You know, to just write something on a piece of paper. Hand it over to the nearest person I come across and say ''hey man!'' ''What do you think of this story?'' ''Thoughts?'' ''Opinion?'' ''Criticism?'' ''Etc.''. So long as I can share my ideas and to honestly express myself. To just say ''this is me, this is my place, this is who I am''. People keep telling me that writing has to come from within you. So in a way I'm sharing the very thing that makes me tick, that which helps me breathe, keeps me alive, the very essence of my existence. Indeed, I am bearing my very soul: fragile, caring, innocent but at the same time twisted, anguished, hateful, tormented, envious, remorseful. All of these emotional facets

She won’t know, when he picks out the little button up, flower dress for her first day of kindergarten, the hours he’ll spend that night scrubbing the marker stains out of the fabric. She won’t have a clue, when he lets her wear that outgrown dress just a little too long. In the sixth grade, there will be an art class project, and she’ll take that same cotton fabric and make a pillow out of it. She’ll be so proud of her creation, uneven seams, bunched up corners and all, that she’ll keep it on her bed until she heads off to college. Then she’ll decide that it’s best to keep the pillow in her childhood bedroom. She won’t want anyone to perceive her as juvenile once she’s on her own. When she comes home, new girlfriend in tow, for Christmas senior year, she won’t notice the faded blue pillow missing from her room. After college, she’ll struggle. Real life isn’t like she expected at all. Her father will wait patiently for her calls. He won’t care if she only calls to complain. There will

Hey, smeghead. It’s me. You. I am you. Sort of. But yeah, this is a message from you, thirty years into the future. I wanted to let you know... No, we don’t have flying cars yet. And nobody’s been back to the Moon, either. The Yanks keep talking about it, but here we are. So, yeah. I wanted to tell you that things will get better. Although not all at once. There’ll be some tough times, but in the end... No, I’m not a fighter pilot or an astronaut. And FYI, the Space Shuttle is a complete death trap. They’ll lose another one 12 years from now. Much as the idea of plummeting to Earth in a three-ton bottle bank supported by one parachute isn’t exactly appealing, Soyuz has a far better safety record. Now where was I? Ah yeah. Things will be difficult. You’ll still be ridiculed for being different, but you know what? Fuck ’em. Read comics. Watch Star Trek. Go get into Star Wars, too. Embrace the fact that you like rock instead of pop music. Hell, maybe start to learn the guitar before

The house was dead quiet, a tawny colored cat cleaning herself was the only sound, then the noise of a key turning before the door was practically thrown open. A young man and woman staggered in weighted down with arms full of groceries. “We’re home Cleo!” The woman called. The cat gave her people a single accusatory stare before resuming her cleaning routine. “Don’t be like that, we got you catfood.” The man said to the uncaring cat. The two began to put their groceries away in the fridge and cupboards, when they were finished the man spoke. “Another weekend day spent at the grocery store, what are we going to stream today?” The woman’s face darkened. “Margaret? You ok?” “I’m fine! Leave me alone!” Margaret snapped. Her husband recoiled as if he’d been struck, she could see the pain in his face clearly which turned to anger, he clenched a fist. “Sorry for asking then!” He shouted as he stormed out. Silence again reined in the house as both spent time in separate rooms

Photographs. So many photographs. Smiles. Real smiles. Fake smiles. Loud music. Everyone singing the same song, each for a different reason. Everyone searching for a home in a note, a lyric, a chord. Some of us just belong in the road. In a street light, in a park tree, in an untuned guitar, in a sand of a beach, in a sky of a galaxy. The capturing of the moment. Not to miss. Not to forget. How we were, what we did, how we passed the time. Real moments. Fake moments. Pictures alive. A girl in a white tee and black leather jacket, looking like she doesn't care at all, although she does, smiling. That crooked smile covered under her trademark red lipstick. She looks mean, always ready for it, carrying her somberness in her eyes, calling out a silent "help me", searching for a home. Trying to be found, cause she's lost. Wanting it all. Hands up in the sky, here and there, holding tight, letting go. Some people we know, some people we don't anymore. Some people we thought we knew.