Tag Archives: slice of life

Impossible Year: Petrichor

It had been hours since Ryan Ross began staring down the mustard-yellow walls of his living room, and since then he hadn’t stirred from his position but once to take a sip from his mug—only to realise in quiet disdain that his chai tea had already gone cold.

It was drizzling lightly and he was lazily lounging on the couch, wearing an embarrassingly fluffy blue jumper and sweatpants, having a nice warm (well, not so nice and warm now) drink, and hearing nothing but the comforting sounds of rain falling from the gloomy sky and gently kissing the rooftop and windows.

It was the perfect sweater weather, the one Ryan adored and wrote about more than any other season, more than he ever even cared to admit…but now, it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t really know why, exactly, but something felt anxiously off somehow.

Just what is it about today?

On most times like these, he would already be full-on dramatic poet mode, with his intent musings flowing past his relaxed mind and onto his chewed-up pen like…filthy drainpipe water flowing onto the open sewers? Seriously, out of all the beautiful ways to have possibly worded it, that’s the best metaphor he could come up with? Disgusting.

Ryan sighed, running a hand through his messy auburn hair in frustration. The situation was getting more dire by the minute, and nothing else he seemed to try was working.

Mental block is a bitch.

Maybe he was just forcing it too much. Maybe he’d been cooped up inside his suffocating house for too long. Maybe he needed to take a break.

He snorted derisively at the last thought. He definitely needed to take a break.

“George Ryan Ross III, you need to get the hell out of this damning place and pull yourself together!” He proclaimed to himself, his soft voice echoing throughout the empty rooms of his house.

Filled with a new fervour, Ryan resolutely headed to the door, but not before making sure to grab a heavy parka from his closet and a badly-bent umbrella leaning by his shoe rack. As soon as he stepped outside, the scene that greeted Ryan completely took his breath away.

It was a whole lot prettier than he imagined.

Careful not to trample on the newly-blossoming flowers, Ryan giddily spun and traipsed about for a bit before finally standing still in the middle of his front yard. He then breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh scent of lemongrass and rainwater painting the air in that sluggish April afternoon.

The initial rush of wind that blew by was rather strong, rustling the tree branches madly and making him lose his umbrella. The latter was sent careening out of his grasp and ended up tumbling away onto the puddle-soaked street, creating an awful screech as it went along, metal scraping against pavement until the abrasive sound slowly faded away into nothing.

But surprisingly, Ryan found that he didn’t mind it at all. The umbrella’s already old and half-broken, anyway. And the weather never gave a damn about me.

Hey, that kind of sounds like a good line…ladies and gentlemen, we finally have a breakthrough! A voice at the back of Ryan’s head announced victoriously. It was such a silly thought…but suddenly, he didn’t feel so exhausted anymore.

And for the very first time that day, Ryan smiled.

Ryan stayed out in the rain for a rather long time, shivering madly and humming melodies to himself until he was numb from the cold and drenched to the bone. He laughed until he cried, he cried until he laughed; until the tears were indistinguishable from the cloudburst, until the childish laughter was intertwined with the sweet reveries of spring.

And there he stayed, until the rainfall finally ceased and the drowsy sun slowly sank under the scarlet horizon; still cheering and singing along to the march of the clouds.

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oreo (for gabe cruz)

vanilla cat

in cream-tint purrs

afternoon naps

coffee left unstirred

.

fogged haze of blue

and thoughtful gloom

static enamel sounds

and a crybaby june

.

blacktop cat

on staccato dreams

lethargic skylines

and quiet evergreen.

~*~

img_20180920_161832_296829460714.jpg

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heaven in a cup

the first sip

tastes like

a warm hug

on a soft rug

an angel kiss

a playful tease

a milky spill

on a universe

a drop of haze

after a thirst

and it’s a lazy

summer nap

taken on the

worn couch

living room

on a warm

and tepid

afternoon.

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Chocolate Midnight

Painting psychedelic patterns

With an illumined algid breath

Warm dark chocolate decadent

On liquid umber and alabaster

.

Pens, music, and marbles alike

On a taciturn three AM artistry

Not a soul dares make a sound

Only I and my bitter drink stir.

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tired feet and sore bones

tired feet, cold

and sore bones

soaked in rain

kicking stones

stories, secrets

but no telling

as cheeks hurt

from laughing

sterile offices

reject, resent

victory at little

achievements

walking for a

hundred miles

company makes

it worthwhile

end of the day

afternoon fleets

sharing life and

colourful biscuits

tired feet, cold

and sore bones

but somehow i don’t

want to go home.

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On Account of Accounting

Accounting lessons; 1:00 PM. There’s a dull humming invading every comatosed whim of my numbed-down senses, as my wandering stare loses its attention from the blackboard and stays to the harshly glaring rays of the stupor-inducing sunshine. Perspiration trickles solemnly down my neck, a steady saline river of liquid ennui, scribbling fluid retrospections on my scoliosis-slouch back. Nothing else makes much sense but senselessness. The discussion goes on, and the teacher, god bless her, but her voice is beginning to melt into the sound of the faceless grownups in a classic Peanuts movie, and I’m the exasperated Charlie Brown looking comically tired and uttering my disappointed interjection of ″Good grief.″ I sigh inwardly at the depressing thought. A speck of dirt flies past my jaded drooping eyes, almost taunting me as it basks in all its glorious and dignified freedom, and I can hear a squeaky voice at the back of my head blowing raspberries and chanting ″You’re stuck and forced to endure this torture and I’m not, suck it loser!″. I send it away with an aloof glare and a whiff of carbon dioxide from my dry cracked lips, and the high pitched voice trails away with an indignant Darth Vader yell of NOOOOOO, as the dirt speck finally disappears from my line of vision. Yes, I am seriously picking quarrels with infinitesimal matter. I am either very much insane, or have transcended all the limits of human boundaries and am, in fact, an omniscient god who can communicate with inanimate objects. An audible laugh accidentally escapes my throat in a choked hiss at such ludicrousness, and I hastily attempt to cover it up with a weak and pathetic cough. I clamped one heavily-doodled hand to my mouth to prevent any further unfortunate situations, as the teacher’s pupils (well, the ones on her eyes anyways, not the students) twitch in suspicion and scan the tepidly simmering room, ears perked up and nostrils slightly flared in alarm. I duck, scratch on my soaked neck awkwardly, and feint nonchalance by pretending to copy down notes in order to avoid her accusing eye contact, earnest visage etched on my face as I am actually writing this down. The sunlight tears against the glass panes more invasively than before. The room grows stuffier and unbearably hot, the students sliding into a gregarious and palpable grudge, the teacher’s voice sounding more and more like a drone of disturbed angry wasps, buzzing and incoherent. There is nothing else to do but further degringolade into the void of boredom as my neurone flickers off and commits suicide one by one. I hang my head back and absentmindedly gape at my besmirched hands, the vantablack Sharpie ink on my tanned skin shimmering as it separated itself from the dermis and began to float upwards like helium balloons, calligraphic band member names and splintered song lyrics dancing and fusing in an amalgamation of odd letters and incomprehensible symbols, right before my delirious hallucinating eyes. The sky grows temporarily dislimned as the vicious sun gets blocked off and hides behind a passing temperamental cloud. The students become a caricature tableaux of a cautionary cry for help, melting into human puddles along with their creaking plastic armchairs. The unknowing teacher rambles on, lost and deafened by her own static white noise. The cycle continues. It’s official: I am clearly very much insane.

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Oblivion in Alluvion

Carry on and write a song that says it all
And shows it off before you die
Take a little breath before you catch an
Early death, there is so much sky…

~*~

standing out

in the rain

where i could stay

for hours

my heartbeat, it

slows to a lull

and my

hands lose

their tremble.

i meditate;

eyes closed,

tasting petrichor,

hearing the

grumbling thunder,

fingers drawn to

skyward bloom,

drowned in

reveries…

as i feel the

rivulets

of heavenly tears

cascade

down my

fingertips and

torrents

dripping down

my peaceful visage

and water

kissing my skin

ever gently.

lost in a cool

daydream,

a blank slate

of pondering inside

my tranquil mind,

rife with

contentment

and solipsistic

notions,

knowing that

warm soup

and hot coffee

and a tea cosy is

waiting for me home

even though

at that moment,

i was already there.

as the rain

slows leisurely

to a languid cease,

i gaze at the

atmosphere

and bade the

fugacious weather

goodbye—

although i’m

tinged with a sense

of melancholy,

for with my

aqueous companion,

mine empty soul

has never been

quite more

fulfilled, more

purposeful and

alive.

~*~

Hey, you’re fine
I wanna listen to the radio
Driving down Calexico highway
And now I know the signs for sure…

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Listless Leisures

Rustic old town

Hazelnut coffee

Silk cream gown

Riffle decadently

Pen in one hand

Of tremulous red

Way on the stand

Singing about end

Orange and ginger

On bavarian cream

Summer night stirs

In hazy daydreams.

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Parental Guidance

The dragons you chased

With a battle cry staged

Using a flashlight sword

In your afternoon plays

.

The vitamins you took

When they chased you

Back in your sleep, and

The tantrums you threw

.

The book with the cats

Overalls that you wear

The toys you tossed in

From under the chairs

.

I rest with my cup of tea

And you gargle your juice

Another day, another view

Of being in a child’s shoes.

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just another one of those rainy weekends

it was a weekend of

(the rain was pouring its love)

cat-eared headbands,

(my hair was being a nuisance)

cookie monster jumpers,

(which the breeze begged me for)

comfy warm socks,

(adorned with spangled butter stars)

soft bumblebee trainers,

(okay, it was more like slippers)

and a book and brewed coffee

(can’t have without the other, really)

dripping stories side by side

(of just another summer irony alive.)

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