12:00am, 1 January 2014
“Well…bye guys,” said 2013 as she waved her nonliteral appendage weakly. “It was fun while it lasted.” But she knew that no one was listening. They were all too busy cheering and kissing and clinking their glasses and singing some vague semblance of “Auld Lange Syne.” 2013 thought about the way they used to sing that song for her. Or at least, that one time they sang it for her, anyway. But now she was that old acquaintance, forgotten just as swiftly as she came.
The party would roar on into the wee hours of the morning, but 2013 skipped out early without so much as saying her goodbyes. Everyone looked like they were having so much fun, and 2013 didn’t want to disturb them. Everyone was happy with 2014, this cool new year that had replaced her in their lives, just like she had done with 2012. As she walked down the street towards the Island of Old Years Past, she wondered if all the years went through this same feeling of dejection, or replacement, of ennui and emptiness. Even though she knew that it was nothing personal, she still wondered if 2012 had held his grunge, if he would scorn her when she arrived.
2013 stopped and looked back at the triple decker home where the party raged on. “I thought the ending would be bigger,” she said with a whimper. “That I’d go out with a bang, some explosive last hurrah, just like how it started. You were all making Top 10 lists and looking back with such fond memories and recounting all our times together, I guess I thought…I really thought it meant something.” She picked up a metaphorical stone from the sidewalk and threw it at the window of the house, sending it shattering into allegorical shards. “I hope that you look back fondly on our time together. And if you ever need me again, you know where to find me,” she said. And with that, she kept on walking forward out of time to her own entropic heatdeath.
Then she heard a familiar voice say, “Well see? It’s not so bad, huh?” She looked up and saw 2012 standing before her, holding two glasses of champagne. He extended one towards her and said, “No hard feelings, kid. C’mon. Everybody’s waiting. And when you’re here out of time, the party never stops.” She would have smiled, if years could do such a thing. So instead she took a sip and joined the rest of the past forever.
He never reached out much, now that the party invites stopped. Sometimes he’d show up at a big event, a wedding more likely than a funeral. The laughs came out, but more frantically than before. Most of us didn’t know where he had ended up — was he still in the Rockies? Or had he returned back east? Didn’t he say something once about Alaska?
We later discussed how we all got excited for a second when we saw an email from him that morning. The address seemed old, but who had heard from him otherwise? And A 4:30 am time stamp made sense — same old crazy Green. In retrospect, it was hard to tell which was sadder: that most of us couldn’t tell right away that the lonely link to a German pill manufacturer was an obvious incident of minor hacking, or that some kept the email in our inboxes anyway, just to pretend.
She kept her time in a bottle;
a mason jar with a two-piece
lid to create a vacuum,
preventing botulism. Between uses
she kept the bottle in the back
corner of the tallest cabinet, hidden
from the light
to preserve it. Time is always
better when it’s fresh,
kept spry and raw.
is limited, and lately, she’s been
using quite a lot. She
would sprinkle it on
dinner when it wasn’t quite
cooked; add a pinch to
a project at work; pour half
a teaspoon on
an excellent book; a dash
on her own head when
the morning came too soon.
She even tried adding
some time to itself, in
the hopes of making
it last longer. But in the end,
she only had the same
amount of time.
When the bottle was empty
she sprang to the garden
and scoured the seedlings
that cracked through
the freshly thawed earth.
But time was out of season,
or so it seemed, so
she dug through the
ground with her hands
to find the roots. The
soil stained fingers, caught
under her nails, as she
made bigger the hole
around her. She kept
digging, deeper still,
until exhaustion overcame
her. She closed her eyes
and laid herself
to rest among the clay.
Thanks to Mercedes Roman-Manson for the instagram
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged bottle, botulism, cabinets, clocks, cooking, death, eternity, heaven, ingredients, jar, mason jar, monday, recipes, spices, time
line before you closed the
door on my big toe by
turning left instead of
right when I came home from
visiting our last time
line, the one in which you
told me all your secrets
six whole years before you
told me that you loved me—
past tense, in our first time
line before your cat ate
all my stomach’s butter—
flies and you hadn’t been
my mother yet, so I
went back before that time
line, back before I knew
you which is why you slammed
the door on my big toe
but you turned right this time
line, and I asked if you
would dance the paradox
with me in our new time
line where I’d love you like
the first last time and let
our love glide on moth’s wings,
transmutable in time.
Posted in fiction, poetry
Tagged butterflies, butterfly effect, dance, love, monday, moths, paradox, romance, time, time travel
He and She are two lines, converging
to a point like sharks in steady motion:
always moving forward, never going back,
and never standing still until its end.
He and She are straight lines with nothing
but a steamy ninety-eight-point-six degrees
between them, keeping them apart,
separated by an ark until they reach the Point.
She is a solid line, at least 5B lead,
running parallel along the grid
without wavering, without a bend,
and inked to give her shadows,
character, emphasis and depth, while
the other lines perpendicule around her.
He is a dotted line, bisectual,
cutting squares in half, pointing straight
a-head like an arrow, dangerous and
pea-cocked by its fletchings.
A compound beau with pulleys
and gears that often miss the mark.
He and She are headed for a Vanishing Point,
To a collision, or towards a horizon line
where every building skews in a new direction
down slanted streets, slouching towards,
To end, or to continue on and on, anon.
He and She are headed towards a head,
forged by perspective. A trick of the eyes
and the I’s and lines, the lives and the lies,
manipulating space- and wasting -time
creating new dimensions to live in-
side by side, not content with length-by-height.
He and She are two lines, converging to a Point:
An ending, a forever, or flip-sides of a coin?
Posted in nonfiction, opinion, poetry
Tagged 2D, 3D, apex, converge, converging, depth, dimensions, dotted lines, geometry, grid, grids, height, horizon, horizon line, length, lines, love, math, monday, parallel, perpendicular, perspective, point, points, romance, signs, space, space-time, time, vanishing point, verizon, width