Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Within a week of asking her out,

He spoke to me twice as much.

Then he sent a note with chocolate,

Saying he’s fallen for another girl.

I’ll write back, with a bottle of vanilla extract,

And say:

I am not your back up,

Your trump card,

Or Your booby prize.

Best of luck to your relationship,

You’ll be needing luck when she dumps you

for the next one.

Dear Friends and Family,

We’d like to invite you to our wedding, but first we’d like to invite you to help pay for it. We don’t want your money, but we’d like your pop cans. You see, we’d like to turn in about 400,000 pop cans by July so we can pay for the ceremony. Hopefully we’ll see you on the 31st!

The future Geyers.

http://weddingcans.com./

PS: It’s green!

She has a photo album enshrining

her conquests over the past four seasons.

Each photo captures

brass players, drummers, pit people,

even woodwind players

she’s had on her arm.

In total,

they count for half the people in the ensemble.

In the front cover rests a picture she’s torn in half,

one side, unmarked, has her in her pristine uniform,

the other, with devil horns and a pitch fork inscribed in sharpie,

All worn by the drum major she despises,

the one who spread a rumor about her

and the boy in the color guard,

who’s orientation everyone questions.

“Hey Dad?” She bobbed on her heels, the curls in her pigtails bouncing. Her small pink hands grasped onto the corner of his armchair as she leaned towards him.

“Yes Princess? He glanced down through the narrow passage between the newspaper and his face.

“Would you pray for me?”

The newspaper sank a little, crackling slightly as it wrinkled in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

Princess beamed, her curls bouncing a second time. “Oh, nothing’s wrong Daddy.”

“Oh?”

“Mommy says that when two or more people pray, God’s with ‘em.”

“Mm-hm.” One of his eyebrows stretched to the ceiling knowingly. “And what are you praying for?”

“A pony.”

“A pony? But Princess….”

“Would you please pray for me? Pretty please?”

“Of course. But don’t get mad at me if God says to wait.”

She couldn’t have come sooner,

in better condition,

brand new,

mint even.

Like cotton, the nurses wash her once

to see if she shrinks.

We’ll try her on,

to see if she fits.

A man with his head in the clouds (at least 3 feet closer than most) seeks a woman not afraid of heights. He’s not afraid to break world records for the sake of her love, and he enjoys installing light-bulbs, hanging curtains, and viewing life from a distance. Man works as a part time farmer, and isn’t afraid to admit needing support as he walks high above common ground.

We wish him luck.

Her shirt had already begun to stick to her skin, but she couldn’t wash it today. As she pushed the glass door open with her foot, she wondered if anyone but the employee had bothered to show up. No one had. Sighing softly, she figured it was for the best. She really didn’t want the company anyway.

If only building had air conditioning. Most of the women in her neighborhood did their laundry in the morning, or the evening, when the sun didn’t turn any suspect building into an oven. She couldn’t bear the stares. And so the woman came here alone, even though it made her more thirsty, and the heat sapped her strength.

Thirst. She knew the feeling all too well. It only took her an hour in this heat, surrounded by hot clothes dryers to empty her water bottle. Everyday she emptied her water bottle, and every day she headed into the convenience store to buy a fresh one. Even though the store had better fans than the laundromat, she looked forward to those even less. Better fans meant more people, and more people meant harsher stares.

She would just have to bear up and bear every moment like she did every day. Things wouldn’t get better any time soon, if ever, so she’d have to accept the way things went now. As always, she’d have to settle for anything and anyone, when no one nor nothing would settle for her.

The minutes dragged on, each one making her wish she lived somewhere else, as someone else. As she waited for her clothes to dry, she noticed a man outside. He wore a plaid shirt and ragged jeans, and his hair seemed a bit unkempt. So far, she didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, except for what he carried in his hand. She swallowed, recognizing it as a leather bound book with gold print.

BEEP! The dryer called from across the aisle. She walked toward it, pulling her hot clothes out slowly, hoping the man outside would walk away. He didn’t. Why would he even be here? Bible thumpers didn’t come here, not to laundromats in trashy neighborhoods. They just didn’t. So why him?

She picked up her basket, heading toward the door and slipping out as inconspicuously as she could. Unfortunately, the chime on the door gave her away. Turning quickly, she tried to duck away from his glance. It didn’t work. Thankfully he didn’t follow when she walked away…yet.

The water bottle purchase went through without anything unusual, and it served to get her hopes up.  The sight of him served to dash any hopes she had of avoiding him, and anything he had to say. She walked past him quickly, hoping something would distract him. It didn’t.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She didn’t stop to look, she only slowed her pace.

“Could I have a drink of your water?”

He seemed sincere enough. “Do you even know what I am?” She asked. “If you did, you wouldn’t want to share a drink with me.”

“If you knew who I am, you’d be asking me for a drink.” He replied evenly.

The outrageousness of his statement caught her by surprise.

“But sir, you don’t even have a water bottle…or a wallet for that matter. How do you plan on giving me water?” Her eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you are? Just because you’re a preacher, doesn’t mean your beliefs are better or higher than mine.”

He took the water bottle from her hand studying it casually. “Anyone who  drinks this water will just be thirsty again. Those who drink my water will never thirst again.” Then he handed her bottle back to her. His eyes met hers as he said levelly, “Those who drink my water will gain eternal life.”

It would be nice to not have to buy water every day after leaving the laundromat. She could finally hide from the eyes of the public. And to never thirst again… “Please, give me this water! Then I’ll never be thirsty again, and I won’t have to come here to get water.”

“Go and get your husband.”

The request caught her by surprise. “I don’t have a husband.” He still didn’t understand….

“You’re right; you don’t have a husband.” He smiled slightly, not to be condescending, but to show some sympathy. “Actually, you’ve had a husband, and four boyfriends before. The woman you’re living with right now is your girlfriend.”

Okay, maybe he did know. In fact, he knew more than she felt comfortable with. “So maybe you do know something.” She quirked an eyebrow expectantly as she asked “How can you be sure that you have the only way to heaven? The only right way to worship?” Turning her head to glance around the street, she added. “We’re good people with good intentions. How could God exclude us?”

“Who are you to judge God? You hardly know him.” She could see a sparkle in his eyes, as if he had seen the punchline and she hadn’t. ”Salvation comes through me, and there will come a day when how you worship God won’t matter, except that you do it truthfully and in his Spirit.”

“I know a savior is coming, who’ll explain everything to us.” She folded her uncomfortably, wishing she knew what was so funny.

“I am the Savior.” His grin exploded onto his face.

“You are?” A car blaring its horn a short distance away diverted her attention away. A moment later she turned her head back to the man only to see him gone. The woman only knew of one thing to do. She left her water bottle and her laundry at the laundromat as she walked away.

Soon walking didn’t seem fast enough, and she ran. She pounded her feet against the pavement as she made her way back to her neighborhood. Knocking on doors and making phone calls, she told everyone she could think of what she had seen and heard. Some followed, some didn’t. At first she didn’t know where to lead them, until she spotted it back at the laundromat. The preacher had left his book behind, leaning against the wall on the sidewalk.

She knew exactly what to do now.

When does the heart stop longing? When it falls in love? But when we fall in love our hearts long more for that special someone, and in some cases grow cold and long for someone else. Does it stop when we find a job, a bonus, a pay raise? Or do we just long for more money, and more jobs, and more time? Does it stop longing when the world becomes a perfect place? Or does it long for pain to make comfort a reality?

Does it stop longing when we fill it with drugs, alcohol, self-injury, and self-harm? Or does it long more, because it cries for a cure?

When does the heart stop longing? When it dies? Or do we long for more time, and more chances?

I won’t slow down.

I’m not afraid of the monster’s I’ve shot down with my arrows;

Their eyes and their words and their wayward hands have no power over me.

Run as fast as you can, and we’ll see if you can keep up.

I’ve seen other girls fall for apples, even golden ones,

But don’t expect me to stray for a piece of forbidden fruit.

I’ve been shot down, I’ve been rejected,

But I’m not going to stop to fall down and cry.

I’ve wrestled with ideas and forces people prefer not to think about.

I’m not opposed to romance, or marriage

I’m just opposed to men who can’t run fast enough win the race.

Any guy is welcome to try, though he might lose his head in the process.

Not just any guy can win, only those who can keep up, and beat me to the finish line.

So if you love me, try and keep up.

If I like you, I might just give you a head start.

If I don’t like you, I’ll put on armor even if it slows me down a little.

Either way, I’ll probably still win.

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn’t dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t the satin lining. It wasn’t the white-noised whispers. It wasn’t the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn’t even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.