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Literature Text
He came over to my fence every afternoon. Sometimes I would be playing in the yard, and other days I would see him through the window. I would reach up to unlock the door and run out to the fence. We would sit, he on his side and me on mine. We pulled grass and flowers, get dirt on our scabby knees, and catch bugs. Talking through the fence, enjoying the simplicity of being eight, but we wanting to grow up so badly. We would play until my mother came to the door and told me to come in and clean up. I would wave goodbye and run inside to wash the mud out of my clothes. And I knew that I would see him at my fence again tomorrow.
I remember the day he came inside the fence, he knocked on my door and when I opened it, he was standing there. He had a new haircut and green lips from the sour apple sucker. He looked different on this side of the fence. He asked me to come out to play, so I did. We climbed the tree by the fence, picking the locusts' shells out of the branches and selling them for a nickel each, our business never took off. Once, I fell out of the tree and scraped my knee, he sat in the grass with me. We talked about whatever happened to come in the moment; the cars passing by, the bug that landed in his hair, the shapes of the clouds. When it got dark, I had to go inside. But I knew he would be at my door again tomorrow.
I crossed the fence one day, it lead to all sorts of discoveries about what was beyond the front yard. I went to his house and we rode our bikes in the parking lot. We chased each other through the shadows of the trees and dared each other to ride over the wooden ramp. Neither of us ever did though. I ran over a nail and my tire popped. So we played that basketball game PIG. Or DOG or CAT or any other three letter word that we could make up. We used to swing as high as we could on the swing set and imagine what would happen if we could reach the stars in the sky, or at least the top of the clock tower across the street. We talked about what it would be like to get out of this silly little town, but scoffed at the possibility. And I knew that tomorrow I could cross the fence again.
There was one day when I crossed the fence, knocked on his door and no one answered. When I went out to the fence to get the mail, I saw a moving truck came to his house and take everything. The windows were dark at night and during the day I would look out my window to the fence and no one would be there. I walked over to his house and saw the tire skids from our bikes. I looked at the old rusty basketball hoop that we played on in the spring. I sat on the swing set, one of the swings had fallen, and I sat on there for a moment. I looked over to see my white fence. I got up and stood at my fence for a moment, just like he had done so many years before. I opened the latch, and went back into my house.
I remember the day he came inside the fence, he knocked on my door and when I opened it, he was standing there. He had a new haircut and green lips from the sour apple sucker. He looked different on this side of the fence. He asked me to come out to play, so I did. We climbed the tree by the fence, picking the locusts' shells out of the branches and selling them for a nickel each, our business never took off. Once, I fell out of the tree and scraped my knee, he sat in the grass with me. We talked about whatever happened to come in the moment; the cars passing by, the bug that landed in his hair, the shapes of the clouds. When it got dark, I had to go inside. But I knew he would be at my door again tomorrow.
I crossed the fence one day, it lead to all sorts of discoveries about what was beyond the front yard. I went to his house and we rode our bikes in the parking lot. We chased each other through the shadows of the trees and dared each other to ride over the wooden ramp. Neither of us ever did though. I ran over a nail and my tire popped. So we played that basketball game PIG. Or DOG or CAT or any other three letter word that we could make up. We used to swing as high as we could on the swing set and imagine what would happen if we could reach the stars in the sky, or at least the top of the clock tower across the street. We talked about what it would be like to get out of this silly little town, but scoffed at the possibility. And I knew that tomorrow I could cross the fence again.
There was one day when I crossed the fence, knocked on his door and no one answered. When I went out to the fence to get the mail, I saw a moving truck came to his house and take everything. The windows were dark at night and during the day I would look out my window to the fence and no one would be there. I walked over to his house and saw the tire skids from our bikes. I looked at the old rusty basketball hoop that we played on in the spring. I sat on the swing set, one of the swings had fallen, and I sat on there for a moment. I looked over to see my white fence. I got up and stood at my fence for a moment, just like he had done so many years before. I opened the latch, and went back into my house.
Literature
Oh, the Irony
"You don't know anything!"
"I know."
Literature
that's why it's vulgar
trust me. i'm a product of
two, eating at the eyes that
watch me from
collars hanging neatly,
barely, plainly behind
curtained closets.
and trust me, i've
written thousands of words
to replace the hard skeleton
missing at the curve of your back.
you broke each section at the
greeting of a new word gurgling
at the hollow of your throat--
each new disease tickling you
inside-out, your neurosis
peaking pretentiously,
aching at cameras
and gesticulating at the
sight of highways
spelling your death in
a matter of seconds.
run, jump, cracked,
quick roped.
so, at this sudden branching
of spite and malice
from
Literature
don't look back - oh.
before the
before, face it,
there were faces indelible,
the viscosity of
tar in his voice...
tar on his coarse fingers;
like everywhere
in everything
there was the sacred drunkard illuminating
a way...
when i hid by the bucket and
nettle brushed my shoulder, the poison
was slow;
(in reality, he
ran his cows over with a tractor and there
the sacredness should have ended;
didn't;
before the before there was gnarled bark
off unidentified trees
whispering by the river,
rough to the touch
i would spread out my fingers
fascinated by the splinters
now it is morning and i re
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Alternate Title: Tomorrow He Will be There
So I've had this piece up on Deviantart since I joined. For some reason or another, I decided to go back and edit it. Only this one though, not the rest of my stories.
I'm not really looking for a critique on this one, I'm not really going to do anything with the piece.
So I've had this piece up on Deviantart since I joined. For some reason or another, I decided to go back and edit it. Only this one though, not the rest of my stories.
I'm not really looking for a critique on this one, I'm not really going to do anything with the piece.
© 2011 - 2024 xthe-eleanorx
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(Ignore the "=" in the last comment, it has no purpose and I'm not sure how it got there)