by TYLYN
I know that I was made to show love and affection to my owner through cuddling and all that every night, I can’t bring myself to think that, one bed thought mutely. Sometimes, the bed’s owner sleeps on the couch that he first bought alongside it upon purchasing the bachelor’s pad they now share. The man is a philanderer. I can get over those accidental nights on the couch, but the women he brings in here are too much.
A pricey and saucy, queen-sized bed, she was bought in the summer of ’08, when ol’ Johnny had barely graduated from college. Not wanting to rely on others for support, she looked for a change in scenery from what had been the supermarket. Johnny treated her like she was a favorite, in sleep and in consciousness, whatever the smells that developed in her over time. In fact, he probably cleaned her more often than he dusted those basic, unnecessary pieces of furniture.
But alas, this is not a story of your typical love…
Everything began well. He would rest in her memory foam, all while she wrapped him up in her blanket. But soon came the point where Johnny wished to have a “love life”.
Am I not good enough for you? Seethed his bed, I’ve been here for you since you were a mere graduate. She did nothing but try to be there for him, despite his gripes to no one in particular. And then one night, he brought home Alyssa. Some would say that the bed was forever scarred that night. In truth, she was furious.
So this is what those motel beds go through… She brooded. And then came Janette, prior to Mary, Amanda, and a slew of other female humans in the following weeks. It only got worse as she was forced to simply observe his flirtations with others, and to then endure their activities of the night. When will he grow up and realize how faithful I’ve been to him? With Johnny’s cheating ways showing no signs of ending, there came a point wherein the bed began to question things.
I don’t understand… Why are my kind supposed to behave as ever-present mistresses as our owners live their lives? I mean, they get to simply go through life without considering what we deal with as they make their way, settling down and starting to build families, she wondered during the day, simply sitting in the same room Johnny had put her in so many years ago. Family… Do I even have one? And what will Johnny do once he starts building a family of his own? Will I still be around by then?
The real question is: Do I really love him, or the security I’ve had for so long?
While his bed reflected over the purpose of her existence, Johnny met another one, a girl by the name of Maddie. This one was a change in Johnny’s usual pace of going through women. He didn’t hit it after the first date, she wouldn’t allow it. In fact, this was the first time his bed had seen him behave so… responsibly. They would simply lie on her as they watched TV, without a hint of sensuality, despite the obviously ever-growing closeness of their relationship. Time went on, and eventually, Johnny started mumbling in his sleep about proposals and marriage.
So he’s finally gonna leave me for some, some creature? She fumed mutely.
“Ya know, Johnny really does care for that girl you hate so much.” Came the mirror.
“Oh shut up. What do you know about love? He just looks at you so that he can see himself!” She retorted. The mirror sighed.
“And he sleeps on you, sometimes with other people. Come on, you know that we’re nothing but tools to humans, no matter our feelings for them.” She took in a breath of air, causing Johnny to toss and turn a bit.
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean–”
“No,” he interjected, “We’re nothing but tools. All we can do is accept our feelings, accept our position, and still care for them. The only other option is to get thrown away and replaced by another. We’re disposable.” The bed sat in silence, brooding on the truth of what the mirror told her. It wasn’t like she didn’t know it, she just didn’t want to, refused to, believe it.
“Hmph. Whatever.” And more time passed, until the day Johnny proposed to Maddie. He came home and flopped into his bed, excitedly talking into his phone about everything to come. His hopes for the wedding, for the future to be had with Maddie.
It was the day that broke his bed, as he slept peacefully. Twisting and tearing at her memory foam, bending her frame into an unrecognizable shape, her fury truly left her discombobulated. Upon waking up, Johnny was shocked to see the damaged state his bed was in, an overnight transformation.
This will teach you for trying to leave me for some chick with two legs!
“I guess that it’s time for Ol’ Reliable to go,” he remarked quietly, “She’s been through more than her fair share of me. Suppose that it’s time for change, now that I’m engaged and all.” When she realized that he considered her reliable, that he actually cared for her, regret couldn’t even begin describe what she felt in that moment.
It didn’t take long for her to be taken outside by Johnny and Maddie, just in time for the garbage truck to pull up. As they swung, then tossed her into the back of the truck, she reflected on the mirror’s words to her. The walls of the container closed in on her.
Well, I hope that theirs is a happy life. I should’ve loved Johnny like a good mistress, a tool. She contemplated as she was crushed into a cube alongside the rest of the trash, And I’m sorry for being so… Useless.
And so this false romance comes to its end, thrown away, nothing more than junk.
by TYLYN
Many years ago, this land used to be filled with warriors who spoke only of honor and dying on the battlefield, the finely curved blades that sat on their hips considered their souls. Sometimes, the battlefields were soaked with their blood, entire fields trampled for the sake of glory and power. Then, the land would grow once again, becoming the site of fleeting trees whose petals made the tranquility appear ever-lasting.
The towns that hailed the mighty warriors, as well as those honest, everyday people that history has forgotten, soon became cities. These are things that one comes to figure out when they’re standing on the border of the city, filled with explosive signs, heavy traffic, and interesting characters.
“Ohayou gozaimas!”
“Wakarimas ka?”
“Shukudai o shimasu.”
“Suki des ka?”
With guidebook and dictionary in hand, plus many years of study of the language and culture, one is not truly prepared to become a part of a world that one had to fight for, without the proper resources that public schooling tries to provide.
And yet, behind remains the fields that seem almost dream-like in appearance. It is almost as if time resisted the advances of civilization on this little archipelago. But it still failed, for civilization has merely allowed it to merge quietly into their world. The tarred roads, the crops that are just outside the little section of fluttering pink petals, and even one’s standing there, are all signs of how civilization has made it part of their world. And idealistic world wherein there is an image of purity that really is not there.
In the land where symbols are backwards from much of the rest of the world, where the people are never safe from natural disaster, and where unease might lurk behind the insular happiness that has developed, many look to for that bit of hope left in the world, blissfully ignorant of the reality behind that which they seek.
If only they would open the damn doors, culturally. It happened once with intense trepidation, and again with the fire of cannons, but both were merely technological by nature, and signaled the beginning of the nation’s inner turmoil. The time has come for the gates of the society to swing wide, slamming into fence, instead of creaking, barely accessible to the uninitiated.
But these are the fears and worries of someone who had never been. Of someone who has only read the history, the opinions of such a place, without ever truly experiencing it for themselves. Of course, one might argue that the speculation is unfounded, but such is not necessarily false, just a bit more difficult to substantiate.
But it’s all the easier to prove right.
by MAE
I am simply a drawing.
My skin is etched in ink pastel—
lips, hair and charcoal to complete
the shadows beneath my eyes.
I am never still.
I am used to dancing
across sketchbook pages
with a smile on my face
and a lyric in my head.
I’m used to inconsistency,
swinging between boundaries
of my comfort zone,
used to wondering,
used to searching for my artist.
It is my mother, my father, god,
or the giant tortoise shell
in which my universe once existed.
Who knows, maybe it’s not for me
to find out. My thoughts are hidden
within the fabric of this paper,
in simple questions like,
Why don’t more Americans use chopsticks?
and more complex ones like,
What’s so intimate about eye contact?
& What happens after I die?
Lately I’ve been trying to erase
myself. And by lately, I mean, September.
I would like to be recreated
on a fresh sheet of paper.
Maybe on a green one, like my mother’s eyes
when she first looked into mine and told me,
I think I’ll name her Mae.
by BRE
by LUCY
by ERIC
Maybe if I was given a chance.
Maybe if I was talked to more.
Maybe if I was less
intimidating.
People avoid me because
I’m intimidating but give
me a chance I swear
I’m nice…and shy.
Maybe if I wasn’t
shy…
What happens when a person
is intimidated and the other…
shy…
miscommunication.
But just give me a chance.
Don’t judge me by my
looks but by my
voice and actions.
People say that first
impressions are most
important but what happens
when you’re intimidating.
People say my R.B.F. or
Resting B*tch Face, or when I’m not smiling
that I’m intimidating. But what
other emotion am I supposed
to have when I’m not
talking to anyone.
People say that my height,
or even my eyes are intimidating
but what am I supposed to do or say…
miscommunication…
two souls not
communicating for different
reasons. But we all have
to start somewhere.
by NIAYA
Isn’t it perfect how they all stare? How the way I dress isn’t “feminine” enough and my hair is too puffy and wild.
That showing my shoulders isn’t “appropriate” and I need to where a skirt below the knees because any higher and I’m basically a stripper. That showing my girls is way too slutty and provocative.
Isn’t it perfect how I’m constantly looking over shoulder covered by sleeves, hearing the other girls talk about how insane my outfit looks. Constantly asking a mirror if I am perfect enough to be seen by society.
I don’t feel comfortable enough to wear a dress and high heels so I wear what makes me, me! Oh, but dare if I wear a tank top and basketball shorts when just taking a walk to nowhere. Instead of putting on make-up and curling my hair.
Don’t ask if I even come close to looking “manly” than I’m the one who is wrong and a disgrace to the female population.
Then I’m the one acting out for attention and being the bad version of a weirdo.
Isn’t it perfect how just being me, acting and dressing the way I want is bad? Isn’t it just simply amazing how saying I’m fabulous gets me judged and labeled a childish kid?
Aren’t we all just perfect?
by JOSHUA
Classical music plays softly in the background as the prestigious felines enter the ballroom. There is an event today at The Letterbox and only the most pompous kitties can lay eyes on The Letterbox. Chadwick Mittens’s limo pulls up. Two cats step out of the vehicle to let Mittens out. The Papparazzi immediately began to clicking at their cameras to get a picture of Mittens. Mittens was the Senator of Hairball, Xenephoria. By day, he was seen by the public as courageous, principles, and dependable servant. But in reality, he was just good at saying the right thing at the right moment. He was all talk and really a punk butt tomcat. He was raised in the ScratchHouse, so he knew a thing or two about hiding his tracks.
by ELEXIS
I yank open the scratchy door to my place that reeks of the dogs next door. I throw down my briefcase and sink into my uncontrollably shrinking couch. I unbuckle a belt to release my gaping stomach from its restraining collar. My hair is too happy to allow me to reach to the remote, so I sit struggling to deal with the dead silence of my empty apartment. Placing my paws on my face, I sulk in my thoughts of loveliness.
“I could eat.”
Here we go again. I reach my left paw into my pocket only to realize I’d lost my cell. The only way of escaping the couch was to roll…so I rolled. I rolled face first to the ground and continued in my pitiful twists and turns to the landline. I dialed the only number I ever memorized and they always answered with a friendly, “Hello, Oreo…the usual?” I would grumble out sounds to make me sound like I’d say something like “yes” and “thank you.” They hung up the phone because I am on too much pain medication from my tangles to say goodbye. I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling asking myself if I could make it to the door today. My limbs are old and I am too fat to care about my inevitable death? Obesity obviously. Why don’t I care? Why did I spend my entire life alone. Wha— my thoughts are stopped from a loud knocking. I find just enough strength to sit up on all fours and answer the door. The cat that delivered to me was a small, beautiful, young one named whiskey; not only the color of her fur but my favorite kind of drink. She purrs at me and smiles brightly. I give her the money and she tells me she’ll see me tomorrow as she prances down the hall. I close the door and sink back into my uncontrollably shrinking couch. I use my enlarging stomach as a dining table and as I open the box I can smell grease and tuna. The pizza is always the same for me. I grab a slice and pray it isn’t the one that light at the end of the road, for I am in an inevitable self-destruction.
by MESGANA
Breaking News: President Roger the Cat has just announced that all pizza joints should be closed down. No Americans will have pizza today! If a member of cat security sees anyone rebelling against my orders they will be thrown into captivity.
Meanwhile, Roger the cat was dealing with bronchitis which left him coughing heavily. I am part of his cat army so I have to get pizza and milk every two minutes. He is very rude and orders us to do everything all the time. Anyway, President Roger only took pizza away because he wants it to himself. Pizza isn’t good for his bronchitis, but he doesn’t care.
Twenty years later president Roger The Cat was on bed rest and ready to die in just a few short minutes. Luckily, I was there and witnessed his last words, “Don’t give the people what they want!” Which means pizza. Long story short, this cat was a lunatic.
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