The Slush Pile Date Thursday, April 18, 2024 - 09:50 AM PST Topic Entertainment Time again for a multipost, I think. The submissions folder is filling up with emotional outpourings, random fiction, and attempts at satire. The usual really. Some of them make my spellchecker light up like a Christmas tree. Some are so convoluted that its hard to tell where it starts and you can only hope to reach the end someday. This time almost all of them are long too. Gone are the days of the short incoherent ranting and random sentences thrown into a paragraph. Instead, I am faced with LONG incoherent ramblings and random paragraphs thrown into a page. I should, I suppose, be gratified that people are writing more than three sentences. Well, to give you a little taste of what is to come, we have fiction written from (I think) 5 separate points of view, one written from no certain point of view, a self-distanced "coming to terms" with a friend's death, and well I will let you read them and see if you can guess why these didn’t go in as separate articles. I have included author names on this one, not to be cruel as some might think, but rather to give credit to those that even tried. These people are cooler than those of you that never even try. No really, they are. I wouldn't say that they are cool, just cooler than the rest of you that never even dare the wrath of callei the editor. Heart Fixation (Sections 1-5) firefly7 Alora squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that she would soon fall asleep. She was drifting, drifting and a dream began to take hold of her. Then she jerked awake again at a noise from behind the door. The door slid open and Jared walked in, carrying a large tray. “Hungry, love?” He said, turning to slide the door shut again. He looked her over, then set the tray down on the table, and poured her a cup of tea. “You look dreadful.” “Thanks, I feel the very same.” “What’s wrong, love? You don’t sleep, you won’t eat, what is it?” He handed her the tea, and she looked at him with dead eyes. “It’s... it’s nothing.” She shook her head, “Nothing at all.” She took a sip of her tea and looked thoughtfully into the fire. Slowly, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Oh, love, please tell me. Is it something I’ve said, something I’ve done?” “You... You’ve been nothing but a prince to me, Jared. Perfect, I mean it... it’s just...” She looked imploringly at him, wiping her cheeks, and he nodded. He looked at her sadly and softly said, “Mav?” She nodded, biting her lip. He sat behind her on the couch, slowly unlaced her corset, and ran his fingers tenderly over the scars that crisscrossed her back. “He was terrible to you... These marks... They’re only on the outside but... But he did something else to you, something on the inside...” She was sobbing now, face buried in her arms, trembling under his touch. “I won’t hurt you, and I’ll make sure no one hurts you again... Ever again.” He gathered Alora in his arms, as she slowly cried herself to sleep. “It’s Saturday, and I am Alora. Saturday. Alora. Right? Alright... Coffee.” I walk down the stair and poke my head around the door of the den. You’re there, sipping tea, and reading something. “Morning, love.” You say, “Care for some tea?” I make a face and go to the kitchen to make some coffee. I am greeted half way down the hall by the smell of a French vanilla latte. I grin; you’re so good to me. On the counter in the kitchen sits Melix, meticulously cleaning his soft, gray ears. “Morning Meli, how goes it?” I say, stoking him, and sipping my coffee. “Merrower?” He asks, licking my hand. “Hungry? Alright then.” I pour food into all the cats’ dishes, and make my way back up stairs to shower. Soon I am clean, and damp, and I smell like a girl. Disgusting. I dress in the clothes that carry my scent, and relax. I need new soap... You bought mine for me, and for some reason you picked the feminine smelling thing on the market. I’m really not sure why, you knew it wasn’t my style... Perhaps you thought it would make me feel pretty again. Your actions were slightly misguided, but I understand where your heart was. This outfit is my favorite; a soft, velvety black corset and a silky black and white skirt. I smile, and, as I do my makeup, I begin to feel almost human again. I glance at ‘jewelry’ on my dresser, bite my lip, and walk out of the room. As you walk past, dressed now, I feel my heart flutter. Your long, dark hair falls in perfect curls down your back. The color has returned to your cheeks and you’re sort of smiling. You’re beautiful, well... You’ve always been beautiful, but now there’s something more. Suddenly I know... This is the first time I’ve seen you smile. Your smile is radiant and it makes your whole face light up. “Alora? Love? Where are you?” As I walk down the hall, I hear a mumble coming from the kitchen. I walk in and there you are, eating an enormous bowl of Lucky Charms. “Hemlo.” You say from behind a mouthful of cereal. “Hi, what have you got planed for today?” “I’m going to go shopping, you?” “I’m gonna' catch up on some work.” You nod, bringing your bowl over to the sink. “I fed the cats.” You say, grabbing your keys, kissing me on the cheek, and skipping out the door- almost in one motion- humming something. I run my hand through my hair, and go to find some breakfast for myself. I walk down the porch steps humming “Ordinary Day” by Vanessa Carlton. My friends always made fun of my taste in music. I smile ruefully, popping an 80s CD into the car’s CD player. It’s a perfect day out, nice and warm and sunny, with cool breezes. I ease my ugly, green Gremlin down the driveway, rolling down the windows and adjusting the volume at the same time. I find I don’t have enough hands. Finally, I reach then end of the driveway, stereo blaring, and windows down. ‘Where to go?’ I ponder, cruising down the road. ‘Well, I do need soap. To the mall!’ I think, laughing at the stupidity of my logic and turning left. Finally, I’m there, and have a parking spot. ‘Ah, the very capital of commercialism! Corporate America at it’s finest!” I think, walking through the door. My senses are assaulted. BUY! BUY! BUY! 50% OFF! CLEARANCE! I forgot how much I hate this place on the weekends. As I try to bulldoze myself a path though the crowd I see the violent pink hair of my friend Natashka, and at the same moment I know she see me. “Alora!” I’d been worried about Alora for a while now, and seeing her pushing through the crowd towards me gave me the feeling of an inexplicable, and immense, wave of relief. She had all but disappeared about three months ago, no calls, no emails, just an occasional letter now and then. They were always brief and overly chatty, not really Alor’s style. Sometimes you’d see her online, and she talked the same where there as in her letter, and she was too cheerful, even for her. Then she’d suddenly sign off, like someone was coming and she didn’t want them to see her conversation. We all wondered about it, but no one did anything about it. In my group of friends, it’s really not unusual to have someone disappear for months at a time without a trace. I, personally, thought it had something to do with that boyfriend of hers- Mav. I didn’t say it to her when I found out they were going out but I knew that he was a pushy, egotistical jerk, and there was something very strange about him besides. I guess I just didn’t want to sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend, which- I’ll admit- I was. Maybe I should have spoken up... “Alora!” AustraliaTemptressDrea He stalked closer to me with the assurance we would hold each other in our darkest times. Rays from the stars above grasped below to embrace us in their forgiving light. Dark, almost menacing green eyes forced me to feel uncertain. A passionate fire built beneath the surface as he approached with his sincere and radiant smile. A delicious kiss to the sound of a fast brook held me captive to the traveler's words and whispers. His tale of unrequited love matched mine of love lost and I melted with the thought I wasn't alone. Loving others, we helped ourselves through the pain of loss by breathing each other in at this saddened, lowered state, believing we would never see this romantic happiness again. He told no tale of his past or future, just the present. His shady nature showed me he feared my loss of acceptance if his true colors shined through. I disposed of my fears along with inhibition because of some funny notion that life couldn't be as cruel as it already had. Nor could someone so perfect through the resonance of his voice and his presence take what I had already lost. He lumbered down the beaten path toward the house behind me after the chill of the wind and the heat between us unbearable. Down the walkway we strode, clenching our fists in a furious effort to fight the cold and our consciences. The thought of this sickened the both of us; cheating on our loves that didn't exist. The sun rose with his protective arms, surrounding me and no feeling of remorse. Across from each other on separate sides of the bed, we smiled, sheepishly. The stranger from that night left with no curious abandon. He left a phone number expecting no call. I sat alone, feigning the courage I needed to call the wanderer for understanding. Weeks after our meeting, the anxiousness was tremendous but my nerves ached for his comfort through the same ache I had turned to him for before. There would be no magic like there was the night we never touched. This time there were laughs and smiles crusading against the pain we found each other in. There was genuine emotion, feeling, and love for one another and we squirmed under this new light we examined the other with. We compared that night to bliss, ignoring impossibility. Ignoring truth, sexual incompatibility, and all reality itself, we desperately tried to fit ourselves together after the wake. Magic seeped from every inch of possibility and lack thereof. If we can't be happy with anyone else, why would the world keep us apart? We grow together, cherishing and despising the differences and loving with obvious barriers in the way. We had our metaphors for the future just as any couple would, but somehow ours seemed more alive then; more vibrant and at the same time less tangible and ethereal. The taste of the kiss has not been forgotten, or the sweet electricity of his long, nimble fingers tracing circles on my arm. Petal soft lips met those of hardened ones that showed the long-lived soul of a scarred man. "I'm falling for you," he'd say, with a silence preceding the statement. "Maybe someday. In a big house in Australia." The scent of spent breath at the back of my neck has been my keeper so many times along the way. I remember this all the while dancing with you in the halls of my high school after hours to the faint country music the late night janitor plays. broken chances darkistdreamer It's dark now. I miss the snows that lit up the night a few short months ago. I'm alone with the night in the city now, and with those silly yellow street lamps that block out the stars. Last night at five a.m. something odd happened. For a moment, I felt something genuinely wrong, but the trouble with my instincts is that they always come too late. Confusion. I wake up this afternoon to a message, a link, and a question. Concern. No, I hadn't heard this yet, but that wont make me believe it. Denial. Another link, an article. He was Christian, he believed in God, wanted to meet the guy someday. Some great loving god let this happen. Anger. He was the first to care for everyone and everything around him. Regret. Fuck. Ok, I believe it. Shit. Yea, I'll be ok. How's his girl, his roommate, his parents, his best friend holding up? Dealing. "I’m in shock" "she's a little shaken" "it's all so unreal" "you read the news?" "I don't know" "it seems planned" "rollin the dice thing" "you going to the funeral?" "it's so far away" Consequences. Ten months ago, we were all children, playing a grownup's game and starting college. It seems kinda' sad and ironic that the first person to befriend me here should be the first of us to die. We're all still children. My buddy was going ninety miles an hour, and he flattened himself against a pickup truck before he'd let himself be pulled over for a speeding ticket. I still don't understand. I can't help but think he wanted this. He was one of the more meaningful people I've known, but the death he chose was meaningless. Just another off-campus suicide and no one that won't miss him will ever know or care. We weren't on the best terms when he died. The life that had brought us together as friends had grown back up between us. We shut each other out, and I regret this. I'll always regret it, cause I'll never have the chance to make amends, to patch a broken friendship, to make things right again. I remember saying good night around this time of night, or morning. I remember walking home the other way. Goodnight, man. Goodnight forever. I’m not so sure I still have the right to miss you, but I'll go ahead and do it anyways. Good luck, wherever you are... Wisdom of an Elder Dense Now that I am old and gray, watching my great grand children play, I realize that all my memories are no more than past experiences. They don’t even amount to the light from a single star on a full moon night. Yet, they are more precious than water to an oak. Without these experiences, I would be hollow. Yet, I am full. They are mine, unique from any one else’s. With them, I have formed my own ideology and morals, and then tested those ideas and morals. I have passed them on to my children, whom have modified them to their experiences. Now I see their shadows in my great grand children. With this knowledge, no one should need statues or monuments of any kind after their passing. I was thinking about my morals and my ideology. When I was side tracked by the question of where did they come from. This is my answer. So where do yours come from? Protest TemptressDrea In a crowd of thousands at the state's capital, I search for my school district to support them in their struggle for a better standard of living. On January 14th, 2003, I "kept the commitment." My first protest was in Olympia to contest state spending unnecessarily and the refusal to pay what was promised to thousands of Washington State educators. The low, guttural beat of marching drums thumped ritualistically as we went on. People shouted and cheered all around as we made our way to the capital building. My political-action thirst was being quenched although what I had been expecting here had been highly romanticized. I was expecting fists in the air, tanks, fire, and looting. While none of these things happened, I was still pleased with one of our greatest rights of peaceful protest and the drumming, marching, and power these people held as they traveled to the center of Olympia. I suddenly noticed in the distance the sound of steel drums, much different from those of the hand held ones the teachers carried with them, and unseasonable reggae. The group no longer moved in the direction of the building, but they turned toward the music and a warm, welcoming scent. I followed the stream of people, and to the square I went, searching for what drew thousands of hardworking teachers from their purpose. As I drew closer, I realized that the smell I was noticing earlier was the scent of hot dogs, a dollar each. I gravitated toward the center, and more people smiled and an increasing number of older men in suits mingled among the casually dressed teachers; sticking out like sore thumbs, and wearing their greasy, sideways grins. The music fades and the leader of the steel drum band speaks, telling the swarm exactly what they want to hear, along with ambiguous statements like, "I hope you all get what you came here for." I doubted she even knew why we were here. Then, to my horror, she asks the people to lower their picket signs, and in a wave or orthodoxy, the crowd obeys. The jolly woman had taken away their cause and their meaning with her "medium-strength riot dispersing music," and brought together two Brave New Worlds. My sudden urge to leave was unmatched by any reason to stay. I had tried to squirm through the tightly knit group of people to get back to the path back down to the street. I saw my history teacher, Mr. Bill, I wanted him to be as sickened as I was about the pointless show. I wanted us to join together in a crusade for teacher's rights and to raise a speech of our own to rival those of the greatest orators of our time. He saw me, and he smiled. I thought he had read my mind and together we would prevail over this demeaning image these dope-faced teachers were giving him and each other. Instead of a simple nod to convey all I needed to know of the plan, instead of a loud, all silencing single, freeing word shouted from the heart of their very circulation, he said, "Andrea, you're the best." My heart sank, and I smiled back. My mind swimming with confusion, I left the demonstration, will silenced. The teachers would not attend the state of the state address that evening, or at least, no the majority of them. They would retreat, having faith in our benevolent masters, thinking they had really made a difference by marching and taking that diversion. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=531