a snapshot

There are moments that take place, moments that emerge, that seem to remain fixed in eternity. Maybe not fixed in time, because these moments come to be from beyond time and find their place here. Right now, I'm in Savannah, it's summer, 2010, and I'm counting my last five dollars and eighty seven cents. I looked up, and a bolt of lightning struck the power line pole next to the take-away diner I was hoping to get my fourth meal of the week from. I dropped a few nickels and you turned around, as though I and my nickels had caused the clap of lightning/thunder/approaching storm. I nodded awkwardly, trying to decide whether or not to pick up my change, and you turned back to the counter in front of you. The power had only gone for a few seconds, and no one inside seemed too concerned about the oncoming weather. I realized that I was concerned about rain drops falling onto your cascading red hair and wondered if I should say something. You took a deep sigh.

Hello Aalto Lounge Writers

The welcome sign hangs in the corner,

and that is how I feel about this group.

Welcome to the corner, but not welcome really-

the sign is just there to let you know we're here.

You can join if you want to or

just admire our sliding knuckles on

white paper as they glow red in the dark neon light.

You're welcome to watch, long for, to enjoy.

Marty in July

A car pulls up. And another one. A third. The cat sits on the porch and watches the action. Four more cars arrive, the last two fighting to fit between the oak tree and the driveway in the muddy grass. They all sit there, silently, as if no one had driven them there and no one was waiting to get out. But no, these weren't magical cars; there were drivers and passengers inside, and they were most definitely waiting. Even the cat knew that no one would move until that dingy green door opened, and Marty put down her can of beer to wave them in. The silence lingers, and then a breeze blows it away, rustling the leaves of the tree and causing the cat to stretch out a bit further. Finally Marty's shadow moves past old peach-colored curtains, and the door opens matter-of-factly. Blue eyes, dark grey hair, and a faded red dress color her 5'5" frame. She looks at the cat, nods as it decides to go inside, and collects her mail from the box next to her door. She glances slightly at her bills and slightly at her guests, takes a sip of her beer, and waves at the small gang of autos converged on her front lawn.