There was something comical about a balloon whisk, or so Inga thought. She imagined it in the sky above a basket and flame, allowing all the hot air to escape to the clouds above. Perhaps, she giggled to herself, it was something Wile E. Coyote might try.
They say that the genius often thinks and speaks in metaphors and analogies, in little stories rather than complexity, but as one who does this I wonder if they have it backwards. I wonder if those who grow up with analogy and metaphor are simply able to grasp the concept beneath the words more deeply and summon their intuition, their instinctual intelligence with greater ease. After all, if two people are trying to complete a puzzle, yet one uses simpler pieces, they will be faster and be more successful. So perhaps the initial brain is quite ordinary, yet as we make the choice to engage with analogy, metaphor and intuition the genius element accelerates.
The spotlight hit her skin as if it were greeting her eternal inner fire.
They were more like shadows than physical beings - lightly resembling humans-shape wise, but only black smoke. Each form rippled whenever it moved like disturbed water. The only way I knew they were looking at me was the white eyes with a slight blue hue that stood out against the darkness.
Each raindrop is the drop that kissed your skin in those days that we were together, me and you, my baby boy. Each one is the same because they sing of these such treasured memories, of the comforting love that remains and the hopes I hold for your future. And so, I love the rain better than photographs, for each one is a perfect moment.
Yeah, they have an app for everything now, even spreading STI's... no... wait... yeah, they just call that "online dating." Well, ha ha, you what they say... "Gotta catch 'em all."
She stumbled to the corner of the room, and with each step her stomach tightened and ached all the more. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest. Then she could taste it at the back of her mouth. Constance buckled over. A warm, clouded, cream coloured liquid spilled from her mouth, and sizzled as it splashed over the cold stone floors.
Jasmine would often describe her baby as frenetic and fractious. 'She was born with a hurricane for a soul, that one,' she would say. But she said it in a loving way with that soft glow in her eyes that only a mother can have for such difficult offspring. She would rock her in the dead of night when she found it impossible to sleep and she would wear her all day long in a baby carrier so that she would be calmed by the body to body contact. She would soothe her with lullaby's and stroke her tiny back and soft hair. She would whisper sweet things in her ears and cover her with kisses. She would love the hurricane right out of that child and replace it with a sweet summer breeze because above all, she was her baby, and she loved her with a power mightier than the wind.
Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed.
To enter, I must skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
Perhaps it is time to point out the stupidity of anti-Semitism. Firstly, for the anti-semite, is their objection genetic or faith oriented? For if advantageous genes allowed Abraham to communicate with God, then by now they must be widespread in every population on Earth that is not isolated, that is what happens to genes that give an advantage. These genes would thus be in people of all faiths and ethnicities, and perhaps arisen again de novo by mutation. We might see them manifesting in our writers and artists, our social movers and in those who promote love and cooperation, how fitting for God's "chosen people." Or, if the antisemitism is faith based instead, then how do they think Judaism differs from all other religions? Perhaps the most celebrated proponent of love, certainly in the west, is Jesus, who was a Jew, as were his family and friends. So on what is this unholy hatred based? Is it a form of envy? Does it really take so little to bring out the genocidal behaviours of humans? Moreover, if these ideas cannot be articulated in a comprehensive way devoid of fear triggers then what is it but basic thuggery?
At first glance, Tate seemed like the kind of guy you hired to kill your husband: leather jacket, dusty tank top, bandanna, multiple gory tattoos, a stupid vintage pickup he drove, smoked in and blasted heavy metal from. If a stranger ever spoke to him, his dry wit supported their prejudices. But that’s not the man that I knew.
I knew the Tate who sent you smiles so bright you could see them from across the Pacific Ocean and whose thoughtfulness warmed your heart. I knew the Tate who broke out his guitar at 8am to have what he called a “living room concert”. I was best friends with the man whose sky blue eyes sparkled like those of a child in a candy store and whose laugh was so contagious you often found yourself breathless in his presence.
Tate was the kind of guy who would drag you out of the house in the middle of the night to get a greasy snack, who spent hours sketching the same thing until he got it right and, most of all, he was the kind of friend who never failed to distract you from your everyday worries.
Sleepless nights. Beat up conversation. Movie marathons - sci-fi, crime dramas, action. Chaotic good, bad - hell, just chaos. Five cups of tea in a morning. Leather jackets, ripped acid-wash jeans, dusty Bon Jovi tank tops. Wishing you you didn't care as much as you do. Corner store raids at 2am. Loud music in your ear buds, in your car, in your house - loud music in general. The sound and smell of a crackling bonfire. One too many drinks on the beach. Daddy's girl. Judging people who judge people. Tumblr trash. Fifty percent anxiety, fifty percent sadness. Rebels with big hearts. Guys that are awesome with kids. Confidence bordering on arrogance. Starry nights in the dead of winter. Tattoos that are like artwork - who am I kidding? Tattoos are artwork. Pastel hair, dark clothes. Dark hair, still, dark clothes. Greasy food in the middle of the night. Real music - that shit isn't on the radio. Fairy lights over your bed, posters lining the walls and ceiling. You and me against the world.