Found Fiction: Patricia in the Sunstorm

This is a new thing I’m starting: I have a bunch of writing in notebooks from high school and college, sloppily named Google Docs that haven’t been opened since 2016, and saved email drafts. Every so often I’ll post an excerpt that I find with little-to-no editing.

Written: Nov. 3, 2015
Gmail Email Draft

The first time I saw Patricia, I was in love. She was standing, soaked, at the bus stop. Her hair was plastered to her neck and face, her bag was dripping, and she looked like a raccoon from the way her mascara was smeared around her eyes. And yet it was beautifully sunny outside, like someone had just plopped her at Jackson and Clark after removing her from one of Houdini’s water tanks.  

But what was so weird about her was the fact she was smiling. People were staring, but she was smiling. I don’t know why people weren’t smiling at her; just seeing those cheeks and beautiful teeth made me smile, too. It was infectious.

Poem: Time on his arm

He wears time on his arm
Literally, artisically, devotedly.
Not as a watch that slips on and off,
Slows down and speeds up,
Inexplicably stops one day
(it just needs a new battery…or maybe a repair shop).

No, he’s got Dali clocks under his skin.
Minute hands, hour hands, Roman numerals
Tangle among flies and flowers and dreams,
And tie together with vines that bind around his forearm.
A permanent reminder that time is impermanent.

So how funny is it
That whenever that surrealism-swathed arm
Wraps itself around my waist,
Offers itself as we walk down the street,
Extends to hand me a drink
Or reassuringly squeeze my knee,
Time seems to stands still.

(Or at least I wish it would.)