little bird
2008-04-03 2:17 a.m.

april is national poetry month, according to eric--who might be pulling a delayed april fools' joke on me. if he's not joking, then the deal is that poets are supposed to write a poem a day.

i did this one summer, with good results. the poems were crap, actually, but it didn't matter, because this was back when poets didn't read my diary. i just wrote things, and once in a while one word in one line was all right.

but now, i wouldn't dare. so i told him i'd do a short short every day.

i don't even update this every day. it'll be difficult, but ultimately, i think it will be good. because now that i'm done my thesis, there is not much reason to write fiction, short or otherwise.

---april 2---

Marjorie came down the stairs and Michael came soon after her. He looked angry and he smoothed his tie repeatedly as he talked.

"Did you leave the shower on?" Michael said.

Marjorie didn't answer. She wore a silk kimono and sat down in the yellow chair in the living room, the one next to the window.

"Why would you leave it on?" Michael said.

Marjorie didn't answer.

"Are you planning on coming to the play tonight?"

She looked out the window at the exact moment that two bicicylists rode by, side by side. Though their movements never aligned, they pedaled at the same speed, their calves lengthening and shortening rhythmically, like a row of pistons. Michael walked over and stood next to her. He looked down at her.

"Or are you going to be crazy again?"

The bicyclists were out of sight, but a bird entered the frame. It stopped on the yard and began to hop. Its narrow tail pointed up at a funny angle, making it look alert and ready.

"I don't like when you're crazy."

He pivoted towards the window and looked to see what she was seeing.

"But I'll turn off the water for you, if you ask."

He noticed the sky was an unusual fleshy gray color, like a faint red light was trying to push through the shapeless clouds but not getting there.

She noticed the sky's color, too, but to her it looked like the color of clay dirt kicked onto the sidewalk, maybe Georgia dirt--and it didn't seem strange, or new.

----

and here's one for yesterday, April 1st. i wrote it last summer.

They step off the ferris wheel, and he grabs her hand. "Sometimes you remind me of a unicorn." She drops his hand. She has never liked unicorns. They are pathetic creatures, loved only by children and social misfits; they have no place in our world. To her, "unique" is simply a nicer way of saying "alone."