Comments Posted By bekkah
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When I went to Mexico we collected shells on the beach. They smell bad but they look cool. But after a while, they all start to look the same. Just like everything else. That’s why I’ll never settle down. I don’t want my really cool life to grow monotonous and start to look the same. Always something new. Always growing, changing, maturing because of the world around me.
» Posted By Bekkah On 06.20.2013 @ 8:46 am
thinking creates a whole world. my own, personal private world. it’s huge, vast, and endless, and yet it’s so compact that sometimes it’s hard to continue thinking. it’s cool and personal and me, but sometimes it’s lonely. it’s so hard for me to put my thoughts into words. i can’t share my giant internal world with anyone. i think too much.
» Posted By Bekkah On 02.05.2013 @ 7:14 pm
Only a minute? (59) But that’s not enough time (58) to sink into the (57) depths of this problem (56), this prompt, and apparently (55) I’m a very observant person (54) so how will I (53) have the ability to record (52) all of my observations (51) in such a short time? (50) I haven’t even begun (49) to process the word (48) on the top of the page (47), because all I have done is panic (46) – teeth, teeth, what are teeth? Only 45 seconds left to go – now 44. What is something no one (43) has ever said about teeth? (42) Smoker’s teeth, the name of the ugliest (41) shade of paint that no one would ever (40) paint their kitchen. (39) But Ellen said that. (38) Teeth of a chain saw that bit my brother (37), landed him three stitches (36) and a night in the ER. (35) But that already happened. (34) What can I say about teeth (33) that no one has ever said (32)? Even the most observant person (31) in the world couldn’t (30) come up with anything new to say (29) about teeth. They’ve been (28) a presence in my life (27) for all of my living memory (26). I’ll bet they have been in your life too (25). My uncle used to chase (24) my oldest brother around (23) with his dentures. But (22) those aren’t real (21), and that was just a (20) family story. What (19) can I do? I frantically (18) pull up images of myself (17) brushing my teeth, (16) but for god’s sake (15), who doesn’t do that (14)? Only a few seconds (13) left and I gnaw on (12) my cheek with my back (11) molars, a nervous habit (10) I have. It’s the (9) final countdown and I (8) still have nothing (7). A minute is too small (6) of a chunk of life (5). I can’t do (4) anything with it.
(3) But it’s all I have.
(2) It’s all any of us will ever (1) have.
And now it’s over.
» Posted By bekkah On 10.22.2012 @ 12:06 am
The young man’s vision had just tested 20/20. He was clear for the military now, and he could clearly see where his life was going.
Until the day that she died.
That was when he realized that she had been the one tying him together all along. That was when he fell apart like an unwrapped package, the paper carelessly torn.
» Posted By bekkah On 09.15.2012 @ 7:17 pm
They huddled in the corner, her once-bright red sweater now faded and torn where she caught it on the corner of the mission’s cafeteria table yesterday morning. She thought back to this time last summer, when Brian had just gotten word of his promotion. She thought they were on top of the world, and for all practical purposes, they were. Unfortunately, they would never be there again.
» Posted By bekkah On 02.18.2012 @ 10:30 pm
They aren’t that special, honestly. Somehow, they’ve become the symbol of feelings and emotions and love and excitement, but I don’t think that love can be confined to a pump in my chest that cycles oxygen through my body. Love is so much bigger than that, and yes, I’m sorry to be so trite as to talk about love under a prompt about hearts, but sometimes these things need to be said.
Anyway, hearts are the most unromantic organ ever. They look like squishy and distasteful lumps when they are outside of the boxes that they inhabit behind rib cages. They are the reason blood pumps and gushes out of open wounds until you bleed out and die.
Then again, that is what happens when love goes wrong and no one is there to help. I’m not talking about lust or childish romances that fall apart when the rubber hits the road, but when a father loses his child or when an old woman loses her husband – love can be destructive, and honestly, most of the time it’s the most unromantic thing I’ve ever seen. It’s ugly and it’s distasteful and it’s messy.
So perhaps there are good reasons for hearts to represent the seat of love; it may be a pump in the middle of a chest, but it controls the health of the whole body, and can be part of its most inglorious undoing.
» Posted By Bekkah On 11.16.2011 @ 2:11 pm
They tell me that the concrete is what is practical and that the concrete is what is beautiful. They say that there is no replacement for the feeling of the sunshine in your hair, for the breeze and the perfumes of a field on a balmy summer day.
They say that my obsession with the immaterial is wrong, unnatural and — most horrendous of all crimes — not pragmatic. Impractical, they say. But where has “practical” ever taken them that I can not go? Have they ever considered that the world of every book is merely an abstraction? That it isn’t truth in that hard, concrete way? That truth can be found through the abstract sometimes more readily than through myriad fields of wildflowers? Must they really loathe my abstract philosophy?
» Posted By bekkah On 11.13.2011 @ 11:22 pm
She watched the winter deepen through the window. She never went out and touched it; she merely watched as the icicles on the eaves thickened.
» Posted By bekkah On 11.12.2011 @ 9:35 pm
Are you sure you want me to try to tackle “positively”? I mean, at work, people term me an optimist, and people at school generally think of me as a positive person. But that is only because of my laugh; I use it often, for every applicable occasion and some inapplicable ones as well. I figure it’s the easiest way to make people feel comfortable, and it works pretty much every time. Funny, how that simple sound emanating from my throat makes me an optimist.
Consider love. Do you believe in true love? Me too. But from here on out is where we will probably start to differ. Do you believe in a love that can last forever? See, I’m a fan of the Oscar Wilde quote; “Multiplicity of objects does not alter singleness of passion” … at least, it goes something like that. When it comes to love, I am a pessimist. This is why I try so hard not to do it. Family, friends, those are different; it’s relatively low-risk to love my sister because, unless I fuck up big time, I feel pretty confident that she will always love me.
A romantic relationship…. well, I learned better than that before I graduated high school. Nobody waits for you to apologize if you mess up, and nobody’s willing to say what they’re really thinking, and NOBODY WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER.
So, yeah, I’m an optimist. I never give up and I always find the positive no matter the situation. And rest assured, I never laugh for anyone but myself. That’s how optimists do it.
» Posted By Bekkah On 11.10.2011 @ 6:02 pm
It was all I could do to take care of myself. I realized I had to stop taking in all of these orphan animals. My friends at the SPCA called me selfish for it, but they didn’t realize how much I yearned for their company. It was only because my mother made me promise on her death bed that I would put my needs first, and because I couldn’t afford cat food for twenty cats and the rent on my apartment together…. Because of that, I knew I had to stop. No one realized how much I cried, having to be by myself every night. Everyone thought that my sacrificing days were over.
» Posted By Bekkah On 10.29.2011 @ 10:03 pm
This is automatic to me anymore. Turn on the computer and tap out some letters on the keyboard, hoping in the end they make sense to someone—- but I forget myself- readers don’t like this melodrama going on between the author and his work, it’s unsanitary, it’s messy, and they don’t like to think about the author that much. His mess should be outside of his work, in the gossip magazines.
Readers prefer to think that the author is neat, orderly, even hygienic. How cute! Well, this bastard hasn’t even bothered to shave since his wife died.
How’s that for neat and hygienic? I just took my wife’s blood and smeared it all over the pages of your novel! The only orderly in that story is the one in the hospital that called the doctor in a panic because he hadn’t seen one die yet and he didn’t know what to do.
In reply to his franticness, the doctor mumbled, “What can anybody do when someone dies? Just get me the paperwork and quit rambling, would you?”
And indeed, the author wondered what anyone can do in the face of death. He decided shaving did not make the list, and so he would not do it. The only order he kept was that of eschewing the useless practices of life in order deal with death. And he could not think of any useful actions…
So he quit trying to write a rant about his wife over the background of the novel his readers expected and used the razor to slit his throat.
» Posted By Bekkah On 10.25.2011 @ 9:15 am
The awakening for her was a very subtle thing. She didn’t know how it started, or even why — it was just that one day, she felt more alive than she had ever felt before. And she supposed that meant she’d had an awakening, however unconsciously, because she knew that she had spent her entire life asleep until now. She didn’t know whether to be happy about it because of her total transformation, or to cry that it had waited until she was on her deathbed — if she had felt this alive fifty years ago, she would have changed the world!
But no one would ever know this about the timid librarian who died in her sleep at 95 in a nursing home.
» Posted By Bekkah On 10.23.2011 @ 12:41 pm
She wandered up the spiral staircase, hoping her candle would remain lit. The moaning was louder now, and she just wanted to stop it. Karina was terrified that it was a product of her own imagination, like Marc always told her. Tonight, however, she had the skeleton key, and so she could open the door standing between her and her sanity. Tonight, she would find the answer.
Karina reached her brother’s bedroom, and opened the creaking wooden door gingerly. He may have been in Saint Petersburg on business, but there was no telling which of the servants were trustworthy. She was afraid of the consequences should Marc find out about this midnight adventure.
The bedroom looked unsuspicious to an untrained eye, but Karina waited. The moaning came again, louder this time, and she closed her eyes in order to locate the sound. Her head started spinning – it sounded like it came from all around her, from within her even.
It was at this precise moment, about to solve the mystery that haunted her, that Karina fainted.
When she awoke the next morning, she had a splitting headache, and the old servant Brutus stood over her, concerned but quiet. He did not say a word, but offered her a mug of water.
“Thank you, Brutus,” Karina managed, while doing her best not to throw up. “I was looking for a portrait that Marc used to have of us,” she explained. “Mamma had it commissioned by one of the best artists in Saint Petersburg… The thing was spoiled for us once we realized that he was our father. The man we had known as Papa… was merely an illusion, a protection against the truth.” Coldly, she laughed. “Not that he ever knew that, of course.”
“I wanted it destroyed once we had discovered the truth – she told us on her deathbed, no less. Despite the hurt it caused us both, Marc refused to allow it destroyed. It took me years to face it, and I always told Marc I should never lay eyes on the thing again.
“And now… now that he has hidden it from me… I long to look on our innocent faces again, painted as they were with sins we were entirely unconscious of. But in seeking it, I seem to have been overcome by the past in a swoon.” She inhaled slowly, and attempted to rise to her feet. “Would you happen to know of a place secret to my brother — sacred enough to hold such a portrait?”
Brutus listened attentively and nodded. He proffered his hand, and smiled as Karina regained her feet. “M’lady, you fell almost right on top of it, as it were, as though your spirit knew where you were standing.” Karina looked at the floorboards and noticed a slight defect at the end of a board. Something in the hole it left glimmered in the sun.
“Thank you, Brutus. I hope you understand that my brother needs not hear of this incident. He has no time to reopen such old wounds.”
“Indeed, m’lady, as you wish,” Brutus nodded. As he turned to go, Karina placed a few silver coins in the pocket of his suit jacket. “Thank you, and be sure to ring if you need anything,” he added as he bowed out of the door. “The past can be a dangerous thing to face.”
» Posted By bekkah On 07.23.2011 @ 9:35 pm
Oh, I wanted him. I had gotten out of the habit of denying myself, so the next move seemed natural. I sauntered up and said hi, making sure to look up at him through my eyelashes.
He didn’t buy into it like everyone else did. I think he must’ve come straight from a psychology class because he waited until I looked at him straight on, and then he said, “Do you really need to have sexual attention from men in order to feel good about yourself?”
I cocked my head and pretended to think about it. “I don’t, but what’s wrong with wanting it?”
He looked at me intently, as if trying to figure me out. Puzzled – almost as if I’d disproven his psych class – he replied with a simple “nothing” and walked away.
I would have followed him, but after playfully answering his question, I’d started to actually think about it. When was the last time I allowed myself to be satisfied with myself, by myself, without getting sex involved in it? And why was that silly little encounter actually bothering me? The look in his eyes was almost begging for more, and that was why he was so puzzled — he didn’t want more flirtation, but more of me.
» Posted By bekkah On 05.17.2011 @ 11:31 pm
The word makes me feel pain. I have forgotten the one man who wanted to be my friend even if I was too thick to see that we were meant to be more. It makes me feel shame. And it makes me want to tell the truth, instead of spinning a facetious little yarn like I normally do here.
And I thought I had forgotten my sense of shame… It was lying just underneath the surface, right next to my memories of him.
» Posted By bekkah On 05.15.2011 @ 11:25 pm
She snapped the glowstick, lighting the room with a weak pink color. “Where did it go?!” She whispered, her voice hoarse and panicky. “He’ll kill us if we’ve lost it, you know that, right?”
Someone knocked into her as they tried to look underneath a chair. “HEY! Watch it Buddy.”
A muffled masculine voice emanated from underneath the armchair. “We’ve got bigger issues to watch than whether I bump into you Elisa.”
» Posted By bekkah On 05.12.2011 @ 2:53 pm
He consoled her… or tried. She sat with her back straight, like her mother had taught her, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing. Her posture was militarily straight. She seemed too hard to hug, so he merely patted her on the back, unsure of what to say and completely confused as to what he could do.
Death and loss were old friends to Habinger; he didn’t seem to understand the sting felt in one so young as this. Of course, Marc was not living the same way Habinger’s friends lived before they died. He was living the kind of life that encouraged people and made them wish they were young again.
Watching the girl’s grief, which was contorted by the lack of softness in her body, Habinger remembered having friends whose deaths would have made him hurt like that. It seemed a mercy to him that she had not had to live through the death of Marc’s fiery ambition. That was the worst kind of death, the one that Habinger had to see over and over again on the faces of his school friends, and later on, his bar buddies and then his wife; once it was over, it was simply a matter of waiting until they died a second time so that he could gain the closure of a burial. In truth, their souls were buried years before.
He was called back to the present by a ring of the doorbell.
» Posted By bekkah On 05.10.2011 @ 7:50 pm
So I like things to be simple.
The problem is that most things only seem simple on the outside. The beach, for example. It’s just a pile of sand with a swimming area enclosed by buoys to keep adventurous teenagers from getting pulled into the undertow.
However, the beach’s reputation for summer love wasn’t earned through simplicity, even if it lives on as such. There are complicated nuances to every encounter at the beach.
The only thing I’ve ever done at the beach is get sun burned.
» Posted By bekkah On 06.23.2010 @ 8:50 pm
I sat next to him for two hours yesterday. If it weren’t for the namecards placed on our seats, I’m not sure I would have found out what his name was. He was quiet, but we both wanted to talk. Neither of us did. He played with my hair when I complained about the hat falling off, and I touched him as often as was excusable when he said I’d have to keep him awake. We promised to keep in touch, but I don’t know if we will. It’s not as if I can laugh my way across the miles. If only I could, things would turn out so differently than they are turning out to be. I miss what we were too unsure of to grab ahold of while we could. I’ll try not to forget the memory we never made.
» Posted By bekkah On 06.06.2010 @ 3:30 pm
I paused at a faux bronze gong. A small cushioned mallet laid next to it; I picked it up and tapped lightly on its dusty surface. The man behind the counter glared at me disapprovingly. “Are you going to buy that?”
But of course I wasn’t and he knew that. I had come in here every week since I started college here three years ago, and I hadn’t bought a thing yet. I loved the flow of the antiques store. Some of the items had been in the same place on the shelf since my first unplanned visit in September of my freshman year.
I had wandered in on a whim with my friend Kelsie, who grew up here. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in there,” she mused as we walked. Her former tourist guide tone had given way to a bit of puzzlement. “I’ve never noticed it, but you know, from the looks of it, it’s been there awhile.”
“Then let’s go in and check it out. I’m always up for a little adventure with my amazing host,” I replied.
» Posted By bekkah On 06.01.2010 @ 6:24 pm
She stares at the window, trying to see past the mirrored image of herself against the glass. But she cannot. The possibilities of the future are dimmed by the dried blood on her forehead, flaking onto her nose and falling onto the windowsill. It is caked under her fingernails. He might be gone, but the marks he made will be with her forever. No matter how they tell her to forget him, she cannot. She sees reminders of him in every part of her, within and without. The baby kicks, and she sucks in her breath. Only a few more months now, and her future will be settled.
» Posted By Bekkah On 04.18.2010 @ 10:55 am
Our first date he took me roller skating. I remember how we crawled along the floor, because I’d never gone skating before. He was so patient with me, and when I stumbled he used the excuse to grab onto my hand and never let go.
I just wish I loved him.
» Posted By Bekkah On 05.05.2010 @ 9:47 pm
theres nice corners to houses. you can really find a nice spot to relax, maybe with a window near by. the sun can rest on you while you read a book.
» Posted By bekkah On 09.12.2009 @ 10:51 am
I’ll love you. I can’t right now because I don’t know you. I don’t want to commit to something neither of us really knows is possible or not. A vow means so much more when it’s not taken in haste. Don’t you think it’s easier to say that I’ll try to love you, or that I’ll love you someday? I can keep a promise like that. I can’t say that I’ll love you right now because I’m incapable of anything more than just puppy infatuation and I know that your worth more than that. I just don’t know if I can give it quickly because love takes time to form.
» Posted By Bekkah On 07.09.2009 @ 12:08 pm
I have the ticket going to somewhere, but where? do i really want to go there? I love my home, but it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to strange clothing and dark hair and not to me, blonde and simple. I need a new home because i don’t understand this one anymore.
» Posted By bekkah On 01.01.1970 @ 12:00 am
The light fell against the garage doors irregularly, with dancing shadows in the forms of leafless branches. The bars on my prison were nothing more than a shadow, always seen, and sometimes felt, but never, ever touched.
» Posted By bekkah On 08.23.2009 @ 7:11 pm
I could write a dialogue of a flirtation but where would that take me? Down no further than the bedroom on the left. I want to go so much further than that. I want to fly, and reach the impossible.
» Posted By bekkah On 08.21.2009 @ 7:29 pm
The final release of the tension in her shoulders, been holding for months, keeping her weighted. Now, behind the wheel and away from Bobby, Sheila was free, and no one cuold ever take that moment away from her. Bobby could even do whatever the hell he wanted, and she didn’t care because there was nothing left to care about but whether or not to make a right on red. She had beaten him at his own worthless game by dint of this feeling, or so she said to herself. So she believed.
» Posted By bekkah On 07.28.2009 @ 7:55 pm
My belly is shaking in laughter at your latest “invective,” about my awful hair, no less. Nothing has changed but I’ve learned to forget all that stuff that nobody can fix – let go. You’ve taught me that by ignoring everything and laughing and just being simple, not bosom, friends, we can grow. We’re not BFF’s, but I’m sure we’ll still be hanging out in fifty years. Thanks for not being there and yet meaning so much to me.
» Posted By bekkah On 07.21.2009 @ 7:04 pm
Back To Stats Page
I don’t want to bother with this anymore, she thought. But I don’t know how to stop him. Almost unconsciously, her fingers caressed the latest marks of his love, or so he said. Whenever Sheila thought about this, her eyes fell on the knives in the closet. Of course, Bobby only used them for cleaning the results of his hunting expeditions, but what if?
And then there were the guns, but they were always unloaded, she made sure of that. A heated argument that threatened his security in her could – but no, she refused to let herself think of what could happen. Her mind fixated instead on the very presence of the knives, that became like the eery music in horror films played just before the scream. She never let the guns so much as cross her mind.
Just one more day, she told herself. After all, it’s Friday and we’ll go out tonight and everything will be fine.
If I don’t do something tonight, then when will I do it? Tonight’s as good a night as any. After all, if not tonight, will it be any night?
Sheila grabbed a sheet of paper to organize her thoughts. She had about three hours before he’d come home, and she needed every second to get herself ready for this.
“Dear Bobby,” she started, and then she let everything onto the paper. Ten minutes later, she crossed something out and started over. Finally, an hour later, she set her pen down and pondered the note. She treated paper and pen like a confessional, always listening and never critical. Sheila shuddered imagining saying any of those things out loud, regardless of their truth. A brief image of the closet popped back into her head and she had an idea she knew she could live through.
What? Live with, I meant live with, she thought. Okay, this HAS to get done today. And with that, she folded the note and put it in the front pocket of her washed out jeans. She rummaged in the closet and grabbed the knives, all of them. Then, she ripped open drawers full of Bobby’s clothes and wrapped the knives in piles of them – slipped in a sock, rolled in a pant leg, and soon the entirety of Bobby’s wardrobe lay on the bed.
Only ten minutes until he came home. Sheila panicked. She took the pile to the disgusting green dumpster across the street, knowing he’d never bother to fish them out of there.
She still wasn’t sure if she could go through with the confrontation, and so she decided to give herself a little extra time. It was inevitable now, since he had not a single change of clothes left in her trailer, and none anywhere else. She hopped into her scraped up black Pontiac and drove in the opposite direction of the office where he worked. The last thing she wanted to do was pass him coming home. Dust rose up in wake of her, encouaged by the summer heat. A thunderstorm was brewing, goaded on by the heat.
She pulled off the road after two or three miles to find, behind some oddly lush greenery, an isolated duck pond. Sheila often came here when she needed to think. It was here that, as a teenager, she had sought a hiding place after her father died.
She breathed heavily, as though she’d run a marathon, and tried desperately not to cry. There was no way she could let him see her tears. Trying to calm herself down, she remembered the note. Breathing deeper, she skimmed over the opening lines. The more she read it, the more she realized it said everything she could absolutely never say to his darling face, and yet most definitively needed saying. Maybe I can still beat him back home, she thought, jumping in the car again.
When she pulled up to the trailer, however, his car was already parked there, and Leia was on her run in the back. As nonchalantly as she could, Sheila walked in to see what she would find.
A head of brown hair, slumped on the kitchen table, supported only by arms. Still in his work clothes, the poor baby. The words stuck in her throat, so she pushed them out of the way.
He raised his head to look at her, and in his eyes she could read the question which was burning into his very being. Why?
When she was fairly sure she could speak, Sheila found the courage to say, “Why are you here?”
After all, why would Bobby still be there? He had no reason, really. If Sheila had more guts, she would have kicked him out, but she still wasn’t about to let this problem go back below the surface. It was too late for any kind of resolution; she wanted him out.
Bobby didn’t move. He was probably in too much shock. Sheila forced herself to shoo away the sympathy in her heart and pull him out of the chair. She had to get him out of there before his shock turned into anger.
He didn’t resist, but let her push him out of the door. She fumbled to get the screen door opened from behind him. His dress pants were loose enough that he didn’t notice her slip the note into his back pocket.
The storm clouds that had been brewing that day had unleashed downpours accompanied by heat-induced lightning, and he had no choice but to get in his car and drive away. His lights came on and he sat in the driveway for a moment, hesitant. It made her wonder where he’d go. He was wondering the same thing, it appeared. She turned away from the door. Her own direction was perhaps just as unclear.
Sorry I was so long on you guys, this one just said something to me!!
» Posted By bekkah On 07.18.2009 @ 7:48 pm