she knew what i wanted her to tell me

I’ve been very interested to see what different writers have done with the very short form. It can go in so many directions, and whether one chooses a sort of mini-essay or mini-narrative or prose poem, meditation, etc., each will be quite different because the mind of each different writer comes through so clearly–the writer’s way of thinking, viewing the world, and then of course his or her way of handling language. In such a short form, each word has to be right. lydia davis

i am a down right noob when it comes to flash fictions, short stories, and poetry; the modern juxtaposition of daily reveries, motions and dimensions, indirect similes. but it is never too late to learn, after class today i picked a book: a how-to on literature, feels like an URGENT need because my writing seems to have again come back to a point where it loses a sense of clarity, coherence, and direction on certain kinds of writing (esp fiction)although this time it obviously is much better than the previous times. i thought i could lend myself a hand…

i read the poetry below in jkt, a few weeks ago and i read it twice and i still didn't really get it. and then i asked bening, hey i have just read two interesting pieces of poetry, but i don't really understand. with her voice my perspective had somehow shifted, angles skewed, allowing me to absorb the writer's intention, whether partially or fully. it felt like a giant relief, a breath of satisfaction, a sense of fulfillmentlike finding some hidden shapes or patterns in a profane scenery. it takes time, but once you find them, you won't look away and let go. because they've been there forever, only waiting to be unraveled.

both by kate fujimoto via used furniture review

I Lied to My Parents When They Asked How I Lost My Car Keys

I couldn’t say
I had been in the graveyard
with a boy who
dropped out of my high school – that we
walked between the headstones and woke
ghosts, let them
climb up from
the ground onto our shoulders, rustling
like paper, kissing our cheeks with
lips that felt like moths’ feet, stretching
spider-fingers into our pockets, taking
everything that shone.

I don’t know why
I didn’t care
when I saw them swallow my keys.
Maybe I figured
the dead get hungry
or that they knew better –
and I didn’t want to go home anyway.



In high school, we joked that
my best friend would become a seasoned fortune teller
because she knew her Chinese Astrology
and how to interpret dreams.

Once, she read my palm
for kicks, I said.
I didn’t believe in fate –
and this made her laugh.

She knew I wanted her to tell me
that I really was braver than I thought
and stronger than I felt.
That I would never get old.
Instead, she smirked
and traced my life-line – a crease
that curved down to my wrist.

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