The Ballad of MulanThe sound of weaving, woman's chore--Mulan weaves on before the door.But now the shuttle's noise is drownedBy Daughter Mulan's sighing sound."Who, my girl, is in your thought?What memory has your mind caught?""No one is in Mulan's thought,No memory has Mulan caught.The night before, I saw the postThe Khan sent out to build his host.In scrolls of twelve did they proclaimThe characters of Father's name.But Father has no eldest son,And Brother's not the eldest one.So I shall buy a saddled horseTo take his place among the force."Now to the East for valiant steed!Now to the West for saddle's need!Now to the South to take the
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing oldi.Coupons and sales magazineshave become more than just junk mailand the holes in my pantsseem more patchableand I wonder just how muchmy sparse jewelry would fetchif I said I saw the face of Jesusin the glimmer of my pearls.ii.I am beginning to miss the sea I grew up onso much that I will read bad poetryjust for the mention of a salty ocean breeze.I feel landlocked and sometimes I'm afraidthat I will never see the worlduntil I have retired from it.iii.Faith says her life is full of asking.I wish mine were full of answers,but I too have many questionsand only Time will answer them for me.iv.My mothe
my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car b
A Night at Pinetop's TavernSomewhere in the back alleys of the city's older section there was a crumbling brick building that had been around since before ragtime music was popular. Hanging above a faded green door that led down to the building's cellar was a wooden sign, and despite the peeling paint, you could still make out the bar's name: Pinetop's Tavern. Nobody really knew when Pinetop's first opened; local folks would tell you it had been there since time began, and the world had grown up around it. It was one of those places where the lighting was always dim and the cigarette smoke never dissipated and the cloud you were breathing now had probably been around
SouvenirsWhen her mom went to check the mail at breakfast, she returned with a thin box in her arms.It was a package from her father.Her dad was sort of like a traveler... at least, that was what she assumed he was. His job always had him jumping from city to city, country to country. He'd been to almost everywhere around the world, and every few weeks, he would send her a letter with a little souvenir from his stay. This time, it was a miniature Eiffel Tower.So he's in France again, she mused, studying the two-foot tall replica. A small chuckle escaped her lips. It was about time he remembered to get it for her! He really should've thought of b
Things ChangeHe rode their tandem bike, alone.
Fine, Fine, FineFine, Fine, FineNothing changed in the classroom when Maria Diaz went missing. It was as if she'd never been there, sitting in her spot in the corner where the teachers couldn't rescue her from the other kids. Whoever said words never hurt was a liar in denial. Maria would have preferred the sticks and the stones. A broken psyche doesn't mend as cleanly as bone."Yo, Clarissa, wake up." Before she could turn in the direction of his voice, Sam punted a paperclip right into her forehead."What was that for? I was totally awake already." She whined. Mrs. Benson wasn't even finished her lesson yet. The fat witch was still writing math equatio
etch-a-sketchhe wrote his suicide note on an etch-a-sketch board.elmo-red frame, golden paint drawing out the classy cursive logo, white bottle-cap knobs, and a fake digital screen.a child's dream.it took him six hours to revisit his childhood for the last time.[it didn't take that long because he didn't know what to say, but because he wanted to finally do something right.]he carefully turned each knob, forming darkened pixels into letters, letters into words, and words into spider-silk-thin sentences that would rip and fade, just as spider webs did.his words faded a bit when you accidentally knocked it off his dresser so you could take it
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions."Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek."Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad.""Sad?" My mother asked inquis
JarsMy childhood home, a gray, old farm house, sat nestled near the small town of McKean Pennsylvania. My father moved us there from Pittsburgh in 1954 when I was no taller than a limp potato sack. I was their only child at the time. He said the city was no place to raise a family. We needed room to run and explore and my mother needed a quiet place to work on her writing. However, in three years of living there she gave birth to four of my brothers. So much for peace and quiet. There must have been something in the water.Folks in town liked to whisper about that house like it was some kind of architectural Jezebel. By the time I could s
Wild Hunt :: LongmaLike any good story, this one does not begin where it began. It does, however, begin where it ends—at a funeral.The village was not particularly big. Rather, it was frightfully small, and just as frightfully remote. That said, it was little surprise that every denizen turned out for something so important as the funeral of a good man.—and it truly was each and every one: every man, woman, and child; every son, brother, and father; every maiden, mother, and crone. It was said even the dogs followed at the heels of their masters, even the songbirds gathered in the trees, and the livestock unable to free themselves from their pens
The Business of Murder"Well, now that we're through with the pleasantries, Mr. Daniels, I must ask: Why is it that you want to die?"Joseph Daniels sighed and slumped down in his seat, the picture of unkemptness. His face looked tired, with large bags underneath his eyes and at least three days' worth of stubble. His hair was a mess, his clothes were disheveled. He seemed to exude an aura of despair.He surveyed the room he was in, which was quite his opposite: neat, orderly, unremarkable. Blank, white walls, some filing cabinents, three windows looking out on downtown. He was sitting in a plain, wooden chair in front of a plain, wooden desk with merely a fake h
Sta.sh
