Unable to catch the particles as they fall. Dancing in the rain. Catching snowflakes in open mouths. The old songs we used to sing. Karaoke microphones. Pretending to be in the New York spotlight. The kind of catastrophe only Lady Gaga can pull off. New clothes that haven't had a tag in years. New is a relative term. There's flats you walk in and flats you walk on. Words with double meanings. Like flipping a switch. Best friend versus fiend. A letter makes all the difference. Life and death. A poem versus a suicide note. It all depends on who's reading it. Flipping the switch. Street lights and drive-bys. The difference between a happy f

I Called Her My Lifeline by prettyninja, literature

Literature

I Called Her My Lifeline

We lost each other, that day in the desert, playing under the sweating summer sun. We ran and ran and ran until our feet grew tired, our breath coming in hot puffs that left our lungs harder than it entered. I lost her soon after, lying on our back, catching the laughs that were slipping free with loose fingers. I lost her among the green cacti and fragile pink flowers. I lost her, and they gained her. The desert is her new home. They took her in rapidly, as if she were a part that had been lost many years ago. The sand and gravel and dried, withering plants welcomed her back with open arms, as if to say, "You've been gone so long. We missed

I Wrote This For You by prettyninja, literature

Literature

I Wrote This For You

The color blue is for the sky. The sky that we share, day after day, as the weeks turn into months turn into years. We count the number of skies we have seen in our relationship. We count the number of skies that have passed over our heads since we fell in love. Blue is the color of the ocean. The ocean that we step carefully into on the first day of summer, amidst the teenagers and spring breakers. The sand and waves mingle over our toes as we smile at each other through the glare of the sun. Sky meets ocean. Horizon. We meet each other. Our hands intertwine. The color green is for grass. The grass that tickles our ankles in the early mor

Twenty-Three by prettyninja, literature

Literature

Twenty-Three

I wanted nothing more than to spend the night with her, singing filthy rap songs that neither of us liked, just because they made us laugh. I wanted to stay under the covers with her, touch the sensitive skin of her thigh with light fingers just because I wanted to hear her laugh, head thrown back, neck bared. I wanted to dig out my old, heavy Polaroid and take her picture in the soft light of the evening, the room lit by the moon and nothing more. The image would have been distorted, but I would have been able to see the shadow of her naked form, looking at me, smiling. She put on her dress and her pantyhose and her red high heels. She kiss

Flammable Nature by prettyninja, literature

Literature

Flammable Nature

Brendon always remembers the details. His first kiss: he was wearing his Bright Eyes t-shirt, jeans with a hole in the left knee, glasses. They were touring. He never told anyone that he’d never kissed a girl. (He never told them that he’d never kissed a boy, either, but they assumed that anyway.) It was two days after he met Audrey. They had a double-date planned with Jac and Ryan. Spencer’s hair was long – past his chin, almost to his shoulders. Spencer had said, “Good luck,” and cupped Brendon’s chin. Spencer’s lips were chapped and dry. The kiss was chaste, quick, not enough. Brendon was sitting o

Spiderwebs by prettyninja, literature

Literature

Spiderwebs

“How much do you love me?” There is a certain dampness to the air inside the house that seems to stay throughout the year. Sand is a permanent resident on the floor, in between the floorboards and under the white wicker furniture. The windows all open side-to-side and let in the cool salt breeze from the ocean. It makes the house feel like a sanctuary during the summer, like home during the winter. Each step in the staircase creaks its own tune; the sinks all drip a constant melody, pipes moaning bass notes into the night. Just being inside the house makes Brendon’s fingers itch to write music. The world here feels heavy, lik

Fast Forward by prettyninja, literature

Literature

Fast Forward

The city is gray and rainy, mid-afternoon and almost-dark underneath the clouds. Raindrops fall sporadically every few seconds, here-and-there, like the clouds can’t decide if they want to break open here or a mile down the road. Standing on the damp balcony, leaning against the railing, hair in his yes, Brendon raises the cigarette to his lips. He takes a pull and the heat that rushes through his chest is invigorating. He wants to do something. He puts the cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the comically-small patio table and goes inside. The hotel air is crisp and dry, almost-stale, and the taste in his lungs is something like ap

Homesick Like Phone Calls by prettyninja, literature

Literature

Homesick Like Phone Calls

It’s been a long day. They finished tracking all of the drums for the first half of the album, finally, and Spencer’s muscles are tense, half-excited for the release and half-tired from all the energy that was spent. He’s tired, but not like he could sleep. Not yet. He throws his jacket down onto the couch, toes off his shoes and leaves them there, in the middle of the floor. He checks the time. Brendon will be home by now. Dallon will be there with him. Maybe they’ll be playing Guitar Hero or Mario Kart. Maybe they’ll be drinking beer, laughing. Brendon gets giggly when he’s tired. Spencer checks his email, get

The Way You Say It by prettyninja, literature

Literature

The Way You Say It

Brendon slowly puts down the phone. His hands are shaking, just slightly, but enough that when he puts down the phone, it hits the table louder than it usually does. They all knew this was coming, but Brendon hoped – hoped – that maybe they could work things out. Life is never that easy. His band is gone. The one solid thing that he ever had is gone, broken. He still has Spencer, yes, but what about Jon? What about Ryan? Brendon’s head spins. He’s a little dizzy. He goes to the kitchen and pulls a Red Bull out of the refrigerator, but thinks twice and puts it back. Instead, he drink a glass of water. He leans against the

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