wr_post20:subj_nonfict

SURFING

A disembodied voice calls up and down the streets, unearthing me from my sheets.

"...must be moved by..."

Soon other noises join the call and I submit to the inevitability of waking up. If I don't move, I can stay cocoon-like for another fifteen minutes. The shower is going and I hear it through the walls. I drift away in the momentary lull and see shadows of last night's dreams slowly drowning in a rising tide. Objects drift by, clinging feebly to their names. Some opportunists have taken it upon themselves to borrow longer words from the unfortunately large who have seemingly already succumbed to the icy depths. A pen lazes by safely atop 'piano.' A guitar fights valiantly for its title and, aided by its natural buoyancy, very nearly succeeds in reclaiming it from the pig who, with all his girth, simply could not manage atop his own three letters.

Now I am sinking. Without noticing, I have been burgled of my Christian name. Aloof and without bearings for reorienting myself, I sink into the waking world. Gravity reverses seamlessly and now I am emerging upward into my body atop the softly solid mess of my bed. The shower has stopped and there is conversation outside of my door. The officious government recording is still speaking several blocks away, but now the words are completely indistinguishable. I hear my name spoken and instinctively grab for it, forgetting why even as I do. There was some momentary sense of urgency, but now it is gone. Automatonically, I sit up, outstretched arm still dangling in the ether. The weight of my hand imparts force along the lever of my arm to the fulcrum that is my shoulders and carries me straight through the sitting position into a slumped position with my head resting on my right knee

wr_post17:subj_fict

PASS THE SASS!: A BERNICE H. MAYWEATHER JAM

nobody liked bernice. she was a nice person, if you got to know her, but she had a shell of animosity you had to get past. she used to sit in the lunch room facing the wall away from everyone else. everyone thought it was because she was just a jerk, but she really sat over there thinking of all the things she'd say if someone would just come over and talk to her. she knew things. she was really smart. she read books all the time and wrote fantasy. she was in fourth grade. everyone was learning geography and long division, but she was just sitting there. she didn't want to grow up because she didnt think anything was going to change. she had no forseeable reason to look forward to more of the same depression and loneliness, but in her stories she was older. it was an odd internal conflict that although she envisioned being a woman, she couldnt conceive of process of aging. on a day-to-day level, the transformation was too surreal. her body was constantly shedding it's cells and producing new ones. she read a book on anatomy and biology. she read einstein and it blew her mind. she wanted to travel at the speed of light, leave this earth, find new worlds and when she stopped, come to the realization that if she went back, everyone she knew would be dead. but for the time being, until she re-entered that frame of reference, they were alive. what was that called? schroedingers cat, right.
nothing much ever became of bernice. she's one of those old ladies who work at libraries now. she hates it when people brush against her in the elevator. she hates alot of things. she's really old now. how did that happen? she thinks sometimes. against the collective will of her constituent parts, she had aged. it didnt matter though. because everyone died eventually and if her body could keep changing without her insides being affected, then what was the death of the body other than a loss of a hull. an escape of creative energy from this frail, fragile box we walk around in. she knew better, really. knew that there were two realities. the reality her body and the reality of her soul. science vs. romance.