A Hope and Dreams

You’re still a child, so what do you know of love What could you know of sadness, or loss What should you know of the real world beyond what your books tell you Sometimes I want to be able to look into the minds of children I meet For their world views are so alien to me You’ve lived longer than I have, so what do you remember of  When you were my age What do you know of these things we’re told daily is something That has never happened before When we’re all left in the dust By opportunity and circumstance What can any of us truly know of each other What can any of us know of these words That we hand out like candy on Halloween

He’s got his head stuffed under the covers, curled up into a ball, pulling the blankets up over his head so tightly that the sheets are coming untucked from the bottom of the bed. From the other room, sounds are filtering in. The faint sounds of a baseball game, with the distant, but clearly shouted, sounds of the announcers and the cheering crowd diluted by the walls between them. He can hear them, and he can also hear his dad cheering along, loudly expressing his excitement as his team makes a good move, or perhaps his disapproval as they make an error. He can’t tell which, and perhaps the fact that he isn’t sure (and he certainly isn’t going to reveal that he’s been up past his bedtime reading to ask) which is happening makes it harder to tune out. So in the morning, when he gets up, he’ll ask his father how the game went, feigning interest, having looked up the score before he even entered the room. 

the whispers start silky smooth sliding over ears that aren’t listening sidling up into your brain nonetheless perhaps you hear them when you sleep screams make you cover your ears, seeking the quiet in this near silence, you feel as though you’re missing something something is slipping by your notice, and you need the murmurs to speak up slowly they escalate, almost as if what began as a single singer has become a solemn choir but you still can’t make out the voices and they are seeping into every corner of your mind the silent whispers seem deafening now

I spend my days binding books by hand. Fold the paper over, crease the fold, set it to the side. They’re a glimpse of a time long ago when we didn’t have the technology to do this any other way. Once all the pages to create a signature are ready, I lay them, one inside the other, and punch the holes. Then, one day, someone (I’ve never bothered to learn who) invented a machine that could do this same thing so much faster. Then, I take a needle and sew the signature together. When that person invented the machines that could do my job, I wonder if they ever thought a human would choose to do it instead. Once all the signatures are complete, I stack them together, and they become someone else’s work. I wonder if the people who used to bind books back then would think that I’m crazy, for choosing to do what they may have hated instead of letting technology carry this work forward. As we sit around the lunch table, some of the people I work with talk about how much they hate that most b...

The following is a transcription of a letter found in the ashes of what is now believed to be the secret volcano base of some unidentified supervillain, which unfortunately went up in flames in the summer of 21xx when the volcano erupted. Luckily, scientists were able to predict that an imminent eruption was likely, and so the local town (ironically known as Pompeii II) was able to evacuate beforehand. The fate of the owner of this base is unknown. To whom it may concern, When I last tried to take over the world, only to be thwarted once again by my guile adversary, I discovered multiple flaws in my strategy. Additionally, I watched a movie in which someone tries to take over the world for the first time in my life, and all of my errors suddenly became glaringly obvious. As such, I have compiled all of my tips and advice in this letter here, along with the code to access my secret active volcano base, with the hope that someone will take it and be able to find their way to victor...

Is it wrong that I want society to crumble, the world to end? And something new will be built A barn with history painted on the roof Paint long dried, but the tracts it left as it trickled down the slope Still visible When told to stay still, we feel the need to move more than ever Staying away, we miss you more than ever Is it wrong that I don’t miss you more than if we were just on vacation? The ghost of a hand holding mine that I had only felt once before Thank you for being brave A slab of pavement cracked, but no flower or weed reaching through to grasp the sun