memories of our thinner days
memories of our thinner days
the things that cause improved sight and dexterity
nine year olds that ruin the show
Today is my best friend’s birthday.
Write about a friend that doesn’t know how dear they are to you. OR, if you want to be negative, write about the friend that’s actually more like your enemy. Write it from the perspective of a child, from middle-age, from end-of-life reminiscing.
As always, make it count.
Late Nights | early mornings
Johanna M. Vining
he made me marmalade
marrow on toast
made me fetch his wine, his lidded kiss
eventually claustrophobic, sewn delicacies in the sleeve
a young thirty-six or an old thirty-one
one, two, three steps then gone
graphite and granite
world spinning or perception askew
late to the appointment, still late waiting
making sense of this now
exactly the same at seventeen,
now with more wine, more mobility
one eye open while behind the curtain:
bye, bye, birdie – one year four –
railway whistle I can hear your future calling
footsteps falling and a memory of seized words
never anyone like me for you, never anyone like you for me
truth in this
we both deserved better
Because This is What 30 Feels Like
Johanna M. Geiger
It feels the same,
like a whisper calling you from sleep in the early morning.
like the smell of coffee that hasn’t yet been ground.
Thirty feels much like twenty-nine, but with less syllables, less pent-up wondering rage.
Thirty feels like a much-loved moth eaten sweater, the kind you wear around at night and on the
weekends and sometimes out to the store when you realize you’re out of milk and are in need of some
It feels like twenty-nine summers and thirty Autumns. It feels like the impending snow and the hope,
yes, yes, yes
the world can still be changed, but not in quite the same way as bachelorette youth.
Thirty feels like everything and nothing.
It feels like so much anxiety-riddled anticipation made flat like a shaken soda – the kind you dropped at
nine on your way back from the convenience store. The one that bubbled on the counter with that first
burst, but was just sticky sweet water by the end of the day.
Yes, thirty, this number of dread, but not quite living up to its doomed visage.
The world didn’t end, no.
It’s opening its wings again. It’s bursting though.
More of my work can be found on Wattpad.
Write about leaving the rat race, daycare, school, college, the house in the morning.
a burning patch of winter
numbered dates flipping past
without that weathered sense of dignity
There are numerous things left to do
the usual limits of time pressing fiendishly forward
if only we could – if only for a second – catch our breath
tropophobia settling in.
An intoxicated swirl plus
a need for constant contact
Here, put your hand where my heart is.
The silence, here, is deafening.
I can hear you breathing –
200 centimeters away and counting.