I told the story of my first kiss as part of my Tube Mommy essay. Are any other Pontificators brave enough to share their FK story? Typically in Ashes, the writing can be fact or fiction and you don’t have to say which. I could be a curmudgeon and say “true stories only,” but maybe it would be more fun if we left it open.
Non-members can leave their FK stories in the comments too!
Even steven
There are fourteen stairs
up to my porch. When climbing,
I put each foot down in the same
place. My feet are even.
Even Steven
When I walk I count
the times my feet come down
without landing on the cracks. Sometimes
only four or five steps go by before
a foot finds a crack. But when stride
and sidewalk synchronize, I go
more. Once I went a hundred
fourteen steps. If you subtract
ten squared, that leaves fourteen. There are
fourteen stairs up to my porch. The door
sill counts.
I don’t know how
to capitalize titles. They taught me
to use capitals on the significant words,
and lower case on the minor ones. I think
all words are significant. No words are significant.
I capitalize every other word. It’s only fair.
Even Steven
I count by sevens in my head. Evan Seven.
The second number is fourteen.
We hitched from Oakland. At first we were together but could not get very far… having trouble getting rides of any length. You told me to stand out on the road alone to get someone to stop and then you would jump in behind me. When the semi stopped, you ran up to the door after I had scrambled in and blurted, “meet me in Hollywood at (blah blah blah)” and slammed the door shut.
(more…)
I have used you as a crying shoulder. Your harsh coldness complemented my sadness, and you added drama to a mundane misery. I have fallen on you. Trying to walk, soaked in liquor; you left marks on my skin when you slapped me with your jagged edges.
I like you when you are in the shade, cool and smooth on a hot day. Like that length of you that runs outside his door. I like to walk there. You accommodate me when I skip and spin and stand on the tip of my toes so I can kiss his cheek.
GIVE ME BIG PIECES OF CHALK
To clutch in my grubby fist
I need Light Sky Blue
Lemon-Pudding-With-Milk Yellow
And the shade of Pink
That is only found in flowers
Orange too, if you have it
I DON’T CARE
If my neck gets sunburned
I don’t care
If my knees get scraped
I don’t care
If I miss the good shows on TV
I NEED TO DRAW A BUTTERFLY
AS BIG AS ME
The summer I turned fifteen was the hottest summer in the recorded history of our whole county. I knew because it was on the news. I always knew what was on the news. While other families sat together and watched sitcoms, my family watched the news.
I spent most of my summers barefoot, because sweating inside your shoes is the most disgusting feeling I knew of. It still is. Everyone wore shoes that year, though. Even the really tough kids couldn’t walk on the hot sidewalk with no shoes. (more…)
Sidewalk.
I grew up in the yellow house on River Road: the one with the clump of California poppies at the base of the mailbox post. The house is still there, but it is no longer yellow. The poppies are still there, but they have spread twenty feet in either direction along the edge of the road.
The hill is still there too. Of course a hill wouldn’t go anywhere.
I don’t like this thing I’ve been doing for the last year and a half, and the sixteen before that. (more…)
That bike was mine, once. It isn’t anymore. Now it belongs to the girl across the street and two houses down.
You taught me to ride that bike. I knew I couldn’t. I was too old, and you said I was to young to think so. You made me pick up my feet and push, but I only walked. Bike between my legs, one foot at a time. Step. Step. Step. You laughed the first time, and then you grew tired.
You made me try again. I don’t know what motivated me, but in the parking lot with the hill I flew. I was so fast. I yelled all the way down.
When I crashed into the dumpster, I made you push me again.
Thanks.
