humanity
For better or for worse, relationships reveal the core of the human condition.
Gentrificate
The night breeze at this outdoor café reminds her of his fingers in her hair. She wants those fingers on her skin, her waist. She sighs and leans in to him even more, caressing his soft palms and coarse knuckles. A thickened middle finger joint. A pointer finger ever pointing to it's left. A pinky finger unable to bow. The hands that knew every inch of her and so expertly learned her most private of inches now spent their time fumbling with the wooden table where they sit. Ripping off the stickers from local bars and bands, his smoke-yellowed two fingers use their oil to rub of the remainder of the glue from the first sticker, his left palm rubbed itself against it, rolling it into a tiny ball until his thumb stamped it, stuck to it, and dropped it into an upside down beer cap that was sitting at the table before they intruded on its rest. She is jealous of the stickers, ripped to shreds by his hands, though no one who knew her would ever have guessed. His fingers were all crookedly healed from years of jamming hands bartending without insurance. Half the time she's known him he's had one or another finger handsomely wrapped with popsicle sticks by the school nurses where they met working as assistant teachers. She loves those hands. They show his two jobs, his exhaustive daily effort to succeed. Her last boyfriend's mom got a new nose “just for fun,” and these hands are about 60% of her attraction to her Bushwick-raised man.
By Durf Durfy8 years ago in Humans
Psychotic
I sat in my car with everything I owned packed up in the back seat. Tears were running down my face and my sobs would not stop. I was at that low point where all I could think about was all the wrong I've done in my life; I started filling my head with these negative thoughts about myself, about my life, and about every person in my life who I swear thinks nothing good of me. I'm sure it was the equivalent of the devil whispering in my ear.
By Madison Loucks8 years ago in Humans
Gratitude
I was on social media the other day and came across a really interesting quote by Anne Frank. The quote reads, “Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones, because the regret is stronger than gratitude." This quote really got me thinking, my family and I lost both of our grandfathers a few years back and my parents always say that they would do anything just to have one more moment with their dads, they would do anything just to see them smile one last time. Many people likely have that same thought, but why? Why do so many people express that feeling? Thinking about how people often say or think that I began to wonder, Is their regret stronger than their gratitude? What can I do to make sure my regret won’t be stronger than my gratitude? What can we all do to make sure our regret won’t be stronger than our gratitude?
By Jordyn Goolsby8 years ago in Humans
The Millennial Mold
The Millennial stereotype is like every other stereotype a biracial teen like myself has to face. It's a misunderstanding — a label that was smacked on my forehead like a sticker on a steak. I have a flavor, size, marbling limit, and price that I am supposed to be worth — the maximum and minimum that which my abilities will be bought and sold for.
By Lavon Swygert8 years ago in Humans
Unhealthy Thing
I think I’ve always been inclined to desire unhealthy things. I don’t know why. I certainly didn’t have a difficult childhood, nor would I consider myself a victim of abuse or neglect. I think technically I come from a broken home, but that’s only because of a minorly messy divorce and my own need to feel like an outcast. Other than the occasional wrist grab and the one time my mother spanked me as an infant, I’ve never been in any situation that could be evaluated as threatening. I would describe my life as mild. Nothing special, nothing bad, just mild. Yet, I still feel the hopeless pull to interact, seek, and fall in love with the most unhealthy of situations.
By Wednesday Levern8 years ago in Humans
The Widow's Mind
She stood at the top of her house, the sea breeze rustling through her fine brown hair. Upon the sun’s brief returns, there was a tint of yellow and red, hitting her tight bun so, it created a halo above her head. Under her cloak, she wore the traditional widow’s black, a stern expression on her face. Daffodil Unistentasious watched the goings-on of the children beneath, her green-blue eyes pooling water.
By Faith Young8 years ago in Humans
