To each bone lies a story

An end, beginning, and middle

The owner’s apprehensions written in the marrow

A deep groove sings of an assailant, a product of war

Fractures speak of avarice

Interspersed between the ligaments

A distraction lies bare

A way to alleviate what the owner was experiencing

And their own commodious stories

Still have much to tell

The consternation of death

The improvident wishes

Are all subjects in a bone’s story.

[Notes: I wrote this for a vocabulary assignment in like three minutes. Apparently it was good, so my teacher showed it to some people. I hope y'all like my piece of quick writing!]

In my opinion, suicide is something that depends on the context by which it is done. It, like a knife or a hammer, is a tool, and like any tool, it can be used as a weapon.

Most see it as an escape, that is easy. And humans have always had a morbid fascination with death, because we don’t know what’s beyond that veil. And I think most of us are plagued with those dark thoughts--What if I jumped off this cliff? What if I died right now? I could kill myself with this--and it is remarkably easy to push buttons nowadays. Death has always been a sensitive subject though. People die every day and we fancy it up, soften it like butter, because they passed away or went on a great journey or are no longer with us.

But suicide is one of those things that I can touch, can feel. It’s something personal. I joke about it enough, that that blow has been softened. I’ve felt its pull. And I wouldn’t say it’s an act of cowardice, no, it’s an act of escape, a way to release oneself from confines. The only way I would say it’s an act of cowardice is when it is a way to get attention and revenge. That, to me, is truly pathetic.

[Notes: Sorry for the word vomit.]

I like to breathe

I like to think

I like to see and wonder

Mostly about the kitchen, ya know?

I like to hear

I like to know

Eat that chicken,

Spaghetti-Ohs.

To end a broken star,

Galaxies twist a turn from afar,

Hearts of lions know where they rest,

Upon the lonely plains,

And to end a place, to dream,

Upon the lilies, resting frogs,

A mouse trapped, stinging bog,

As the bird sings and screams.

Note: for this prompt on Write the World: " This prompt is simple, dear poets. Borrow the title from Hilda Raz’s stirring poem, “Narrative Without People” (full poem copied below for further inspiration), and write your own poem—a narrative in which no human characters appear."

It was a crisp spring morning, the dew still shining on the blades of grass that were uncut by the blades of a mower. I was standing on gravel, the stone pieces crunching under my flip-flops as I held my camera.

I had no moment I intended to capture, though I figured that there would be one. The sunlight was bright, although tempered by its youth in the early morning.

My companion was my dog, Morton. A mutt of around two, with mournful dark brown eyes and a body equal parts brown and white, he was capable of sprinting about like a maniac one second and sleeping a moment later. He was also smart, brilliant in his own way. He knew me.

So as we were standing three-quarters of the way down the driveway, he anticipated what was about to happen; I shifted, putting my body into more of a squat. Morton's ears pricked, the mournfulness of his gaze tempered by his budding excitement. His swirl of a tail waved around, as he opened his mouth, grinning, elated. He knew the expression I had on, the position I was in.

I inhaled and began.

"Morton! What are you doing, Morton?!" I did the lovechild of a crab-like walk and a shuffle, jumping forward and slapping my free hand against my bare thigh. My voice raised in pitch, mock-scolding. "What do you think you're doing, young man?! Just what do you think you're doing?"

Morton crouched as if to pounce, his eyes shining, the picture of youthful exuberance. When I repeated my earlier statements, moving forward and slapping at my thigh to encourage him, he began sprinting in circles at top speed, rushing through the grass and leaving trails in his wake. I began snapping pictures, occasionally jogging towards him.

At the moments when he'd rush by me, I'd reach out to slap at his tail, which only made him wilder. The grass and the dew recorded his path.

Once, he paused, standing in the grass, attentive and looking oddly serious. I captured his stance, grinning. He stooped again when I moved forward, ready to get him up and moving again.

When at last he moved again, I merely watched, the moment before sheathed in time by the camera.

His paws kicked up the gravel when he ran around the driveway, and watching him made my head spin with him. Only once did he slip, but it was a small moment, and then he recovered and continued running.

As it was with him, everything seemed to last only a moment, and the sun burned away the dew.

Note: Rest in Peace, Morton (2016-2018). You were loved, you adorable mutt. May you live forever.

I'm going to start by saying I'm sorry. I didn't really have a choice here, I suppose, so perhaps my apology doesn't really mean much. But anyway. I was an asshole in life and that's what I apologize for. (Don't deny it, I was a jackass through and through. I'm not the person who wants to look at the dead through a rose-tinted window. Extend the same courtesy to me, because by erasing my bad features, you erase part of me.)

I'm not having one of those funerals. If "Wind Beneath My Wings" is there, I will figure out some way to reanimate my corpse from beyond the grave and smack you all, I swear to God. Being sentimental is overrated. By God, utilize my Pandora or Youtube account and play some good tunes. Use whatever station or playlist you want. But none of those crappy nineties songs that moan and groan about heartbreak.

I will, however, permit Celine Dion's classic, "My Heart Will Go On", if only for the memes. Do play "The Bad Touch" and "Shooting Stars". I unironically like 'em. Get a sermon in there, something rousing. Get hammered, throw a party. I wasn't a saint, Lord knows, so have a good time.

Death, to me, is one of those scary, necessary parts of life. It's an unknown. But it is part of a cycle, and I detest routines, so cremate me. Don't let the worms into my body, because that's gross and I'm not going to be an archaeological dig like 1,000 years from now. I forbid it. Toss my ashes on a biodegradable (read: toilet paper) boat, and send me off to sea. You can find something suitable. Tapioca paper. I don't care.

Now, for the individuals:

Mom- give the cats and dog my love, always. Get a St. Bernard or a Maine Coon in the house. I know Maria Lupita would die of hair, but do it.

V- take care of Tyr and Ares for me. Release Prometheus, his leg's about healed. You also get my collection of books and journal. Decimate and/or hurt any of them and I'll find a way to slap you.

B- win every medal you can in the NMLRA.

Dad- I'm sorry.

S- find every owl trinket you can get. Start a shrine. It'll be hilarious.

Em- figure out Pokemon for me, as I can't figure it out.

Ali- take every Harry Potter thing I own. You're nerdier than I am, enjoy it.

C- I owe you something, but I can't give it. But please do stupid shit in D & D and be the maddest lad ever to roam a medieval fantasy land. Chaotic neutrals always win.

And finally, P, get shit-faced and eat out buffets. You're worthy, and you know it.

Love,

A

Note: @Dream

Maria Lupita- our Deebot (aka off-brand Roomba)

Tyr, Ares- my blood gouramis

Prometheus- my grey tree frog