cotton candy sky

theres a cotton candy sky ou tonight.
the whispy clouds sweep across this risen canvas.
its the breathe of the airplanes.
its the exhaling of a long day.
its the sweet aerial bliss that we humans lift our eyes to. its a truly delicious cotton candy sky.

short story

it's freezing out. rain seeping through her.
her ears are in a shock.
she knows what it's really about. the replacement. her organs begin to fade out.
everything is shutting down.
first, her eyes: never to see his again.
next, her hands: never to touch his again.
after that, her head: never to think of him again.
and last, her heart: never to love him again.
now, lifeless in every aspect.
but for him, abundance.

citrus-y joyride

Light reflecting off his sandy brown hair-there's joy dripping from his smile. "How lovely he is." I think to myself.
Wind pulls through my hair as I stand up through the topless roof of our Jeep.
I look down at him. He is gazing at me. This moment is ours, and he wants to hold it in his hands for years to come.
"Hey, pass me the orange pop, please."
I smile at him.
"Sure," he says as he hands it to me. Our fingers meet.
The joy I feel is remarkable-our togetherness is so eloquent.
As his hand falls down to the wheel, we look upand see a man in his car charging towards us.
The orange pop spills.

freewrite: open window

 "The open window lets the rain in." A song lyric I heard that got my mind running. You allow what you want to allow, is what I got from it. But do you really care if things are wrong enough to fix? Even then, do you really care to fix them?
 We all get comfortable with things we don't necessarily care for. We "settle" on things.
 There's this bathroom stall I go to every day at school. It has a broken toilet seat. I hate it. Yet, I never change stalls-even when I know that seat is gonna peave me off.
It's like it mocks me:"Haha, Courtney! You fool!"
Why don't I just go to another stall?
Because "the open window lets the rain in". That might not make sense to you, but I understand it. It's my opinion, and I'm comfortable with it.

Short story: A sick woman

 The tingling and fresh reviving feeling of a clean shave comes pulsing through my veins. I can pinpoint exactly where I cut myself. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. I desire the tasty pain of bleeding.
 When it happens, I like to dab my index finger along the wound. The fluid squirts outside the seems of my finger.
 "Oh!" I cry. I poke my finger in my mouth.
 "Mmmm!"
It's absolutely delicious. The salty taste. The metallic aroma. It's almost too much to handle. It's my red wine. Oh, but when I get a taste of someone else's blood, it's another story-especially if it's my dead husband's.

Another poem: Anxious

Anxious. Anxious. Anxiously waiting.
Awaiting the fear and terror that is to come.
Cold arms.
Sweaty palms.
All the things I'm scared of-
I'm anticipating.
It's hard to breathe with all this anxiousness-unawareness.
Yet, still I sit.
Anxious. Anxious. Anxiously waiting.

short story: the missing shoe

"Mommy, Mommy!"
"What, baby? What do you need?"
"I want a pet!"
"No, honey. Mommy can't afford a pet."

  They had just moved into a brand new house and little Jimmy had to make new friends, but he didn't want normal human friends. No. What human has human friends? Jimmy wanted a rodent.

"Jimmy, let's go, honey."
" Where we going, Mommy?"
"Out, Jimmy."
"Where's the box of shoes?"

 They hadn't unpacked completely. Jimmy had been barefoot. Everything was still in boxes in this creaky, Tim Burton mansion.
Eeeeeekkkkk!!!

 "Wow!"
It was a mouse.
"You'll be my best friend!.... Mommy, can we keep it?"