I live in one of those greenie council areas and one year they left tiny wheelie recycling bins (made from type 2 recyclable plastic) outside everyone’s houses. Mine lives on my desk, and I’m naughty because I don’t just chuck scrunched receipts in it, but also bits of thread and small fabric scraps from my sewing machine, and once even an empty panamax tab.

It’s a bit like fried rice, actually. People don’t always know that fried rice is for the leftovers. The best fried rice is made with rice that has fermented for a couple of days in the fridge. Then add the rest of the scraps: cut up some old beans; whatever cold meats (tofu) are left over; half a thawing box of what might be chicken (tofu) curry; the last of the old eggs.

It’s funny how no one mentions the leftovers from a relationship. Like each person will find an end point and then it’s like you never had anything together. But there are always leftovers. I guess it’s because we don’t see them all the time? I mean, our selves are just funny onion things and the layers are all our experiences, but even then those layers have thinner layers when you look close. And you don’t want to, really, because onions are unpleasant.

I’m hiding a sprouted onion in my closet at the moment. And actually it’s weird because I don’t know where onions come from. I mean, from the ground obviously. But my onion has been shrinking or shrivelling or something, and the shoots have been growing, so maybe when I stick it in the ground one day the original onion will disappear and there will only be the shoots left and then one day a new onion will just appear. The Little Prince style, naturally.

Sometimes I feel like we might all just be small recycling bins full of bits of thread that are the leftovers from a spool that made things that other people care about.

I was 27 when I finally lost my virginity. In a way though I wish I had lost it 6 years before that. I was 21 and he was 34. We met at a summer job and the chemistry was instant. I felt something before we ever even spoke. He came in for an interview, I looked up, our eyes met, and he smiled at me. This may sound cliche but at that moment, the air in the room changed. I was a good girl, very naive with old fashioned values. At one point, I thought I would wait until I was married. But I had never felt such deep and intense attraction before and he made me question my decision. Our kisses did not disappoint, filled with passion and left me wanting more. So much that I went to visit him on my spring break with being open to the possibility of losing my virginity to him. However, my unpredictable, heavy flow, pre-birth control pill, PCOS period decided to show up. I went farther with him than I ever did at that time in my life, basically doing “everything but”. The next day, however, he told me he met somebody else, he felt guilty for what we did do, and that it had to end. I often wonder what would have happened if my visit were a week earlier.

The man I did lose my virginity to is a much better person. He loves me and I knew he wouldn’t break my heart. There was not that instant, smouldering chemistry though. He basically grew on me. The sex and everything leading up to it did not have that sizzle. It was more of a gradual growing together to suit each other’s needs. It did work out, we will be married 21 years this summer. And, no, while we waited until we had dated about a year, we were not married or engaged at the time, though he proposed 2 months later. I am glad I made the decision I did. I’m much happier than I would have been with the other man. Last I heard, he divorced the woman he dumped me for and he’s now on wife #3. Still I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to sleep with someone I had such physical chemistry and passion for, even knowing we would not have a future beyond that.

I wonder sometimes about all of the millenniums of time that have passed, and I wonder at all of the millenniums yet to come, and I wonder that I tread water directly in the center of these two epochs, swimming in a tick of time that will never be again. Now is the moment. If my light does not shine now...

In this year of 1831

Parisians care more about a book-

Victo Hugo's new book,

Than they do about reality.

The real cathedral-

No not one with a hunchback,

La Cathédrale,

Notre-Dame de Paris.

I must show them-

I have to show them,

The virtue, the wonder,

The sacred beauty.

I'll restore Our Lady-

Create an indestructable shell.

I'll preserve Our Lady-

Protect her from any future harm.

I'll fortify Our Lady-

Ensure that her strength shall prevail.

Our delicate Lady-

The center of our city,

The heart of Paris.

No bullet will shatter her glass.

No cannon will harm her walls.

No flames will scorch her breauty.

No smoke will fill her halls.

She will live on eternal.

I will see to that.

Our indestructible Lady.

A Life Well Lived

I came, I loved, I left.

>>>--------------------->

(thank you for this challenge)

"Why don't you take a long walk on a long pier!"

"Thank you that sounds nice"

"Wait no, I meant take a long walk on a short pier!"

But it was too late.

He did take that walk, and he enjoyed it immensely.

The sunset was beautiful that evening and he met the love of his life, feeding seagulls.

He made a great joke about how if they were in the bay they would be called "bagels"

He loved that joke.

They fucked that night.

Oh Lord did they fuck.

She showed him things he never imagined.

Christ, the things the human body is capable of if one is determined.

"Bagels" hahaha that was such a good one.

He understood why her body welcomed his so willingly.

Bagels.

How absurd.

They got married and had a child.

They named the child "Bagel" to commemorate that beautiful evening of raw passion and consensual violence.

I am that child.

My dream is to meet someone to be the cream cheese to my bagel, as my parents were to each other.

If you think you can be that person please leave a message at the tone.

[BEEP]

I only scavenge at the Hole after dark. I take no risks, not with my baby brother waiting for me.

Tonight, the Hole is quiet when I arrive. Only two other Sweepers have dirty, canvas bags slung over their shoulders and are picking through rubbish in search of a tin of creamed corn or string beans. The air is ripe with rotting fruit and mouldy cheese—promises of a good haul—which is why it should be busier here. My taut muscles scream that something’s wrong, but the thought of facing my starving brother in the morning forces me on.

I readjust my filthy, knit cap, make sure my hair is tucked in, then stick an aluminium micro light between my teeth. Sweeping used to twist my guts with anxiety, and while it’s still not something I look forward to, after two years I’m at least proficient. And hey, I’m still alive.

I bend over and dig into the freshest-looking trash pile. A plug-in lamp, complete with an intact bulb, I shove aside in favor of a flashlight missing its glass. You can never have enough of these coveted, battery-operated lights in Isolon. Electricity is a past luxury. The trick is to find enough usable batteries to trade and keep.

Two dented cans of peas and a mystery jar of something orange I shove in my bag then take two steps to the left to begin again. Every few seconds I stop and glance around; a self-protection habit I learned the hard way.

The humid, night air coats my skin and has what I call ‘air-disturbance.’ New, pungent smells that mean Avalon—the sky city directly above us—had dumped their refuse earlier in the day which makes evenings like this the best for sweeping before everything becomes picked over or rotten. But few venture out at night to sweep because it could cost you your life. For me and others like me, sweeping with less competition means I have a better chance at finding the unopened tins of food that sympathetic Avalonites threw into the trash for us down here.

A few feet to my right I spot the fuzzy brown ear of a stuffed animal with both its eyes intact. In less than a minute I unearth it, shake it free of most of the dirt and crap sticking to it, and push it in my bag for Lake. Maybe he’ll give up his tattered old bear.

Nearby, the two other Sweepers are joined by someone else. I can tell who it is by the limp and intimidating voice. It’s Slate. I don’t like him.

Slate isn’t technically a Sweeper, although I suppose he gets his food and supplies from the Hole too. He’s the leader of the Nights, an underground community who think it’s their business to protect the Hole from the rest of Isolon. Despite my apprehension, I focus on scavenging for at least one more meal and something to trade before I let myself go home to my little brother. I thumb the scar above my right eyebrow, then put my head down and keep picking. If you mind your own business at the Hole you’re more likely to go home with all your limbs attached.

Sounds of an argument erupt from the little group, which isn’t uncommon at the Hole, but I can tell they aren’t arguing about food or grunge to trade. I catch the words ‘contest’ and ‘Avalon’ and I know they’re talking about the competition Avalon puts on every five years where the prize is a new life in the beautiful sky city. But then I hear the word ‘culling,’ and I almost run home. I dig faster and unearth a plate with a small chip I can trade. Another tin of veggies or two and I can be on my way.

I’m toeing the dirt off something metallic, when I notice an eerie silence. In a fraction of a second, I drop my bag, grab the dagger I keep strapped to my thigh and swing around. Slate’s hair shines silvery in the beam of my micro light.

“Well, who do we have here.” He picks his way through the rubble with more grace than a spider, and I marvel at his silence, especially with a bad leg.

My jaw aches from holding the micro light in my mouth but I keep the beam trained on him, knowing he’s unable to see me. If only I had been more aware. I’d stupidly allowed my attention to wander, a mistake I almost paid for with my life once before.

“What’s your name, boy?” Slate shields his eyes and squints. I keep my eyes on his other hand, the one twitching at his side like he might grab a weapon any second. “Shadows got your tongue?” He steps closer but I wave my dagger at him. I know how to use it, even if I still want to hurl at the sight of blood.

My eyes flick from his twitchy hand to his feet. The shift of his weight from his bad leg to his good one is slight but I see it, and brace myself. Quick as a silverfish, his arm swings up. His solid forearm hits my wrist in an attempt to knock the dagger out of my hand. But my grip is iron. With my other hand, I grab a two inch blade from its sheath on my wrist and slash downwards. I feel the blade connect with soft tissue. He cries out and stumbles back. I grab my bag and run. No one cuts Slate and lives.

After several minutes of panicked running, weaving between crumbling apartment buildings and jumping over broken fences, I duck into an alley. I sheath my blades, cut the light, then pull off my cap and let my hair loose. No one expects a girl to be sweeping, especially at night when the Shadows are out stalking their next victims. But it’s not the Shadows I fear, it’s the Cullers. Population control cops who arrive in Isolon every morning and return to Avalon before dark when they’ve filled their quota. They’re the reason my little brother Lake and I are surviving alone.

I exit the alley and keep my pace at a brisk walk, eager to make it home before Slate discovers who I really am.

Prose. At last. Prose. At last. How do I thank you for the spankings you’ve handed down.

What did the hand say to the face?

SLAP!!!

Into fruition. My mission to secure a seat at your table. Yes/No? Maybe kiddie? Say it’s so

After a snip it. (You know?) In the Week magazine mentioned the app. (Did it happen like that? Imagine that’ maybe) As similar to a creative writing class.

I thought... What a relief. Because.

Back then. I still had beef with?

Public Speech. And all words used to face the matter. (Teeth Chatter)

And I’d tired at that which once entertained.

Books, beaches, or Babylon etc. etc.

Variety? Yes! Hearing good things. About getting other things of your chest. Remembered twenty five years ago. Writing stories in class as something I did not detest. So the joust of jest. Is/Was for the best.

Imagine That?

Victoria Jane Spinner awoke groggily to a dull ache in her shoulders and the smell of cows. They were the first thing she heard. Large, gentle bodies adjusted quietly in their pens or thudded slowly over to a salt lick where the sound of rubbing sandpaper followed. Every so often one would pause its chewing to let out a low noise of content and give its head a shake.

Sunlight streaming in from a square window at the top of a soaring barn ceiling caught her waking eye. For such a small opening it filled the huge area with orange light that made the many stacks of hay look as though they were ablaze. They were piled everywhere and filled almost the entire upper section, saturating the air with their sweet smell. Ladders stood on either side of the piles, reaching all the way up. Birds chattered and swooped above, tending to their nests in the rafters while a pair of barn cats eyed them balefully from the straw-strewn floor.

For such a peaceful scene, to Victoria it was anything but.

Consciousness began to grip her in ever-tightening fingers. She realized she was gagged with cloth. Rough twine secured her arms tightly to a wooden post behind her back and her ankles were duct-taped together. A deep ache in her shoulders told her she had been in this position for a while.

Panic rolled through her body like a wave of nausea and she understood that she was in serious trouble.

Oh my god.

Uttering a frightened moan she struggled against her bonds. Fear and adrenaline made the pain seem distant and unreal. The odor of the cows and hay stung her nostrils but they hardly seemed to exist. All that mattered was getting out. She tried to reason where she could be was but it was difficult to think; she had a wicked headache that felt like an ice pick had been driven into her brain.

Something more troubling was the blankness in her memory and the grogginess that pressed heavily on her shoulders, making her escape attempts feeble. She had been at a bar; that much she knew. The events of the night were a void fragmented with hazy images and feelings that felt more than being simply intoxicated; she was beginning to suspect that she had been drugged.

A flash of her friends dancing under purple neon lights surfaced in her mind along with doing back-to-back shots. She could still feel the burn in her throat. The rawness reminded her of why she had been there as another cry of fear fled her lips, muffled by the gag. Mid-terms had finally ended and they were celebrating by doing what any wholesome college students would be doing – getting trashed.

Faces swam before her in a sea of faint pounding music, mostly of her friends but the rest were strangers. What had happened…?

The sound of a sliding door being opened made her balk and tears of fear almost blinded her. Her heart struck up a hard rhythm inside her chest and sweat pinpricked her temples. A man in a large jacket hurried into the barn, carrying a bucket full of something. He seemed to be muttering to himself. More sunlight flooded into the area and covered her in its warmth, making the man’s form no more detailed than a silhouette’s. She only had moments to enjoy it before he slid the door shut again and turned towards her.

Terror rose like bile. Thinking that this man was quite possibly about to murder her, Victoria began struggling again as the tears rolled down her face. She was never going to see her friends or family again, not her little brother or her dad or their sweet shepherd Daisy with the bad back leg –

Without hesitation the man walked up in several large strides and she barely got a glimpse of his determined face and plaid jacket before he doused her with the contents of the bucket. Victoria gasped in shock as the warm liquid coated her. It smelled metallic and tangy like copper and her stomach plummeted as she realized that it was blood. It dripped down her face and over her eyes and seeped through her clothes. The disgusted, horrified scream she issued was kept quiet by the gag.

“I-I didn’t mean to let them escape,” he stammered, tossing the bucket aside. His voice was high and shaky. “I thought if I brought them here no one would know. But I was wrong…they’re much stronger than I th- ”

A banging sounded from the other side of the barn, coming from outside. It made them jump and through the dripping blood Victoria saw that he had paled and his eyes had gone wide, showing the whites all the way around.

“I’m sorry,” he said, although he didn’t look at her. “I never meant for this to go so far…but they won’t go after cows. All of it’s going to be my fault,” he whispered, reaching up and grasping fistfuls of hair. A sob burst from his throat and his face twisted into one of grief and panic. He backed up slowly towards the barn door while tears of his own tracked down gaunt cheeks and Victoria realized he was terrified. “All my fault.”

As he reached the door he turned and threw it open, once again letting the light inside. Victoria, shaking and blinded by both the blood and the sun, saw him turn in the entranceway and look at something outside. He froze.

Startled, she followed his gaze. The wooden slats of the barn let in sunlight from outside in intervals and something was blocking the light just a few yards from the door. For one brief moment she was illuminated with hope; it was someone else! Maybe they could help her!

Her kidnapper jolted to his senses and fled in the opposite direction without another word. He didn’t close the door behind him.

An uncertainty that rivaled fear took the place of relief as the figure outside let out a strange moan that wavered in the air like the call of a wounded animal. It bled into her bones and made her feel something she had never felt before. Small and helpless, like prey.

A scream built in her lungs as it began to move towards the barn door with slow, dragging steps.

I remember a lot of my dreams, even from years ago. They are often vivid. Some are beautiful, with colors that don't seem real. Others are horrifying and have left me gasping into wakefulness.

I'll tell you about one of the latter, but first, a little back-story. My great grandmother was 92 when she died in May of 2013. I missed her dearly, but felt at ease knowing her death wasn't painful and that she had lived to a ripe age.

Two months later, my grandmother, her daughter, followed her. Her death was not peaceful and we didn't have time to say goodbye. She had a massive coronary. We thought we had more time. I guess everyone always thinks that.

The dream:

I was at my friend Carol's house, doing her dishes for her. I looked down and there was a hole in my finger. No blood. Only meat and bone. Like a worm had bitten through an apple, almost. I called my mother and she arrived to take me to the hospital, but we stopped at a store on the way; it was this old run down mall. (It's empty now, but at the time of the dream, it was dying.)

My grandma was there. People were talking to her, like it was nothing, but I said to her "why are you here? You died. How did you get here?" She wouldn't answer me. She pointed to a stain on her pants, trying to distract me, but I wouldn't budge.

I said, "You're dead. You're dead."

She said yes. I said "What is it like?" She said, "It's cold and dark and I'm hungry all of the time." And I knew she was talking about hell.

And that was the worst dream I've ever had.