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Hardback TextbooksIn retrospect, Gender Studies wasn't the best class for a non-confrontational student. But it was too late to drop now; there was no way she'd get her deposit back. She pretended to study her textbook very hard, trying to filter out the class discussion going on around her. Why did the professor have to use discussion circles?

"I'm just saying, if a chick is, you know, wearing fishnets and a halter top, mini-skirt halfway up her knee, slinking around all skanky, you can't really blame a guy. She obviously wants it - if she looks like she wants it – "

The book snapped shut. That was enough. She gripped the textbook in one hand and threw
UnreadI found my own book in the local used book store. The one I spent half of my life writing. The one that spent two years in the editing process. The very one that I autographed for my lover and found in the fifty cent bin of what used to be my favorite book store.
Drowning in Reverse x. I still have your phone.

ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.

viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.

vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.

vi. I didn't see the
RegulationsThe new neighbors caused a bit of a stir when they moved in. Ms. Sharp, the HOA lady, was in a right snit over the whole affair. I heard her seething to Mr. Thomas during the summer barbecue.

"Constance, there's nothing in the regulations about zombies. Legally, we can't fine them over what they are."
Memory TrainThey parked at a Circle-K and hiked up the canyon trail behind the store, making it to the top of the ridge by sundown.  The day had been blazing, katydids buzzing past them in lethargic arcs the whole way.  Tall grass bit at them and stuck to their sweat-soaked clothing but presented little challenge otherwise... but now the sun was down and warm desert winds gave way to cool breezes.

The railroad tracks were as they remembered, twin gleaming beams carrying moonlight off to the horizon in both directions.  Track so straight they appeared photoshopped, movie magic as done by lazy CGI animators who couldn't be bo
Last Rites1. The First to Go
You were always the first person in class, binder open, pencil poised over the page. Always first in line. Always the first hand in the air. The first to understand how fucked we were when the asteroid came.
You liked to get a headstart on everyone else. I guess that’s why you checked out early.
2. Hippocratic Oath
The trajectory cannot be changed. No science will change the facts – Earth is doomed.
He is not a man of faith. He’s watched too many die while under the knife, while waiting for transplants, waiting to live. He slides the surgical mask over his head. Here or hereafter, his patient needed a new heart today.
3. Green Thumb
It was too hot for petunias or geraniums. They didn’t live any longer than a day now, no matter her care. The asteroid had already killed off entire populations of fish and marine life. But she was always one to take life in stride, and bought a few cacti to lavish her green thumb upon.
4. N
FirefliesWe kept cicadas and caterpillars in mason jars, but never fireflies. My brother still has a cicada from three years ago, sleeping away under the lid. Grandpa says it'll stay that way for 17 years like all cicadas do, and it's okay to keep them safe.

But we don't catch fireflies; they don't live that long. They say light travels faster than anything, but our bugs are fat lazy things that travel nowhere in a big zigzag. The tall grass lights up with tiny little flashes every night all summer long and all is dark not two months later, but for the time being they don't even know they're dying.
The Midnight InheritanceAll I had was the waxing gibbous
admiring the tilt of my chin
as I played with one shower-fresh curl
still perfectly corkscrewed
and lightly perfumed.

What strange relief,
watching the advancing rain,
a walking wall of grey
that made the mountains tip their heads back,
to drink that midnight wine.

Before the storm could eat the moon
and whisper rumors to my windows closed,
I watched how Cassiopeia
alighted on my reflection.

Seven stars graced my brow like a garland.
I felt my heart swell like a myth,
my breathing hushed as I found myself anointed.

When the last bead of water
rolled down the small of my back,
the sky rel
instincttwo fish follow each other
for a while

then one turns
one way

and the other
does not.

and this happens
all
the time.
shoppingGod, I found you at a wet market in China
between a trussed up duck and some heavy hunk
of fat that was going cheap, stinking with salt and flies;
you were lying on your side, a landscape in fists and thighs
and not one of them there could moan the way you could,
that peevish bloated howl. I looked at you, slick jowls
amongst the rinds and ropes and toads, and thought
about the shops in San Francisco:

rows of jars, neat shelves and every aisle
mopped hourly, a pert teenager standing to scan
your bottles and bottles of wine--I thought about you
loitering in the toothpaste section, breathing in the gloss
and promise of it, while the
Good IntentionsThe tiny brown mouse, identified only by the bright orange 47 tag on its ear, trudged through the cedar chips toward the water bottle attached to the cage. It nudged the spout twice with the tip of its nose, and droplets oozed out onto the mouse’s forehead. With a soft grunt, the mouse jolted backward and collapsed in a heap in the opposite corner, its chest trembling with exhaustion.
“Amazing,” Victoria Krell whispered, scribbling notes onto her iPad. The fluorescent lighting flickered above her, and she began writing faster; Craig was getting impatient for his bed. She scratched out a side note in capitalized, red letters to remind herself to bring Star Lab’s oldest night security guard a big batch of Boston creams tomorrow morning.
Victoria leaned closer to the lone cage perched on her workstation, watching 47’s wet, blank staring eyes. The brown mouse was only one of twenty in a three foot long cage. It was not particularly interesting or unique,
Burning LowBirthday candles drip
wax on red icing roses
like melting icicles.
EvergreenThe tree was different every year. He wasn't sure when the phenomenon began. He had only noticed in the last decade, when he moved back to his childhood home. Whenever the leaves grew back, it was a different tree. This year was a birch. Last year, an oak.

He hoped it never became a pine.
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.

It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
     i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
     ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
     iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams 
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th
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More from ^Beccalicious

Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
 
 
 
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget the
sunglasses. If we do,
we’ll be conspicuous.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
a warrior.
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station 
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.  
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete. 
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
vigilant
Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bones
broke but drag drag behind, pull
tug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desire
only for blood brains.
Undead, unliving, unknown.
To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t be
a hero. Do not fight marauders without
necessity. Attrition; gnawing for bare
minimal (lest you be gnawed upon!). To
survive ravenous army equip your
 your wits and an axe.
Moan as much as they moan- both sides are hungry.

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July 5, 2011
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:iconbeccalicious:
Updated 28/12/12- Taken on board a lot of critique, cut a lot of the fat and now have a refreshed piece!

I wrote this on my iphone, bloody hard!
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:iconaethiana:
~Aethiana Jan 12, 2013
Hey Becca,

To be honest, I felt this piece was perfect the way it was, before you updated it. I feel like cutting away the "fat", as you call it, took away a lot of the imagery and lessened the strength of feeling that came with it, because there's less buildup time now, and a shorter resolution. I'm sorry, I know you put a lot of work into this.
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:icondamonwakes:
*DamonWakes Jan 5, 2013   Writer
I didn't see the earlier versions, but this seems like a well-polished piece. It definitely doesn't look like there's any more you could stand to trim: you might be able to tell the same story without quite so much detail at the beginning, but I don't think it would be as effective.

I can spot only a couple of things that might be worth a change: "debating who really the best actor to play Batman was" is one. I'm guessing this might have already been shifted around a bit during editing, as it makes sense but the "really" doesn't seem to belong there (unless it's a regional quirk I've never come across before). The other is the sentence beginning "Our ritual became less often." Dictionary.com suggests that "often" can mean "frequent" (which I think would make sense, though it's probably too formal here) but that's archaic.

:shrug: That's really it, though. Having one small detail at the end of a story illustrate a greater change is a tried and tested technique, and I think you've used it well. I agree with *glossolalias that you've turned a very ordinary situation into something remarkable.
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:iconbeccalicious:
^Beccalicious Jan 6, 2013  Professional Writer
I agree with you on the batman line, it is a bit clunky! Thank you for your thoughts :D
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:icontinaaw:
~tinaaw Dec 28, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Stunning writing - congrats on this piece. Made me sad.
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:iconbeccalicious:
^Beccalicious Jan 6, 2013  Professional Writer
Thank you :heart:
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:iconglossolalias:
*glossolalias Dec 28, 2012
you made the mundane heartbreaking and beautiful.
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:iconbeccalicious:
^Beccalicious Jan 6, 2013  Professional Writer
Thanks :D
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:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Dec 24, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You really drive the point home of "would'a, could'a, should'a." So sad, so true.

This is a really beautiful piece, Becca.
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:iconbeccalicious:
^Beccalicious Jan 6, 2013  Professional Writer
Thank you :D
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:iconblacksand459:
*Blacksand459 Jan 6, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome!

And thanks for posting this Lit. Comm. Experiment; it has been really exciting to meet and mingle with other writers on DA, and this Experiment has been very instrumental in introducing writers to each other from across DA. :D
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