The Toast Ghost
A little ghost who loved her toast
and loved to boast upon the coast
began to boast her love of toast
to a coastal post whose name was Froast.
“Sir Froast the post,” said the little ghost
as she sat on the coast and roasted toast,
“I love this toast the very most.
I’d love to have a large toast roast.”
“Dear little ghost,” said Froast the post,
“I see that you love toast the most,
but also that you love to boast
as you roast toast upon the coast.
you cannot host a roasting toast,
for you’re a ghost who mostly boasts,
and other ghosts who love toast most
would not have fun with a boasting host.”
“Oh, Froast the post,” laughed the little ghost,
“the other ghosts would love to roast
some toast with ghosts who love to boast,
for on the coast, while roasting toast,
the way this ghostly host can boast
is not the thing that I love most.
No, at the coastal roasting toast,
our love of toast becomes foremost!”
Dusty
Dusty was a keeper of secrets until the day he disappeared and left our little desert town to keep its own. Some say he ran off to the next sandy city. Others are still looking for his body in the shifting sands. As for me, I believe he joined the breeze as a cloud of dust. He had kept more secrets than anything else in that silent mind of his, and that was only the first thing to turn into sand. On his night-table, underneath a vial of dirt, was a small note, the only clue Dusty ever left us. It simply warned: “Creator of secrets, the keeper should be.” No one ever saw him again.
We never thought we were doing anything wrong. Life gets hard in our little town and when mistakes are made, as they always are, we cannot disclose ourselves to just anyone. If we’re not careful, the sandy whirlwinds will pick our secrets from the air and carry them off to any willing ear. Their telling was a dangerous business, until Dusty came to town.
He arrived alone. No one ever saw or heard mention of his parents. Dusty was not even his real name; it was given to him after he neglected to tell anyone what he called himself. In fact, during his short stay with us, he never said anything at all. Some believed he was deaf, but most of us knew that he was a listener, one who could even communicate with the winds. He was an attractive boy of fifteen or sixteen with dirty, tousled hair and tired eyes. Dark circles always surrounded them. Those circles seemed to engulf his entire being, completely covering him in a blanket of shadow-thread. Under this cover, he drifted about as he pleased, like a desert whirlwind, picking up tiny grains of sand wherever he went, always listening to the whispers on the breeze.
Another of Dusty’s curious traits was how he naturally drew people to him, despite his silence. Before long, everyone began going to him with their confessions, pouring out their very souls to him as he simply sat and listened and stared with his tired eyes. Even those who believed he had no powers of comprehension would go. They didn’t care so much if he heard them or not; the simple act of confession was enough for them. They wanted a secure chest, buried somewhere in the desert, to lock their secrets in and to forget about, and they found it in Dusty’s open ears. Their sands whirled about his brain, gathering and mixing and stirring until one grain could not be told from another and this, everyone knew, was the best way to dispose of a secret.
I myself confessed a thing or two to Dusty. I knocked on the front door of his shabby one-room hut, and he opened the door without a word. We walked inside and sat down at a tiny table set up in the center of the room, and I began to talk. He sat patiently, listening and staring, until I was finished, and then I got up and simply left, back out into the sandstorms, feeling lightened and free. My secrets belonged to him now, and seeing as no sound ever escaped his lips, they were quite safe.
Of course, that was before the day he vanished. Somehow, we all seemed to know at once: Dusty was gone. Perhaps we all overheard a series of conversations, or perhaps the cool moon-winds whispered it into our ears while we slept. But we all knew it was true. I went to see for myself, and when I knocked on Dusty’s door, another curious investigator answered. He immediately directed me to the mysterious note on the night-table and together, we sat and pondered its meaning for us and the future of our village.
“Creator of secrets, the keeper should be…”
Over the next few days, the townspeople gathered and spoke, and finally came to a conclusion. Although our secrets were only tiny grains of sand to Dusty, there were a great many of them. The weight had finally become too much for him to bear, and he left us, broken and burdened with our dust. This was their theory.
I believe that he still exists here, in this desert town. He is still with us, drifting on the winds and listening, always listening, to the sand of our secrets…
The Boys Screaming Out
The first time you heard
the boys screaming out,
it scared you.
Then you stopped once to listen,
and though it was loud,
it pleased you.
Their plastic and steel
you started to love;
it raised you.
Your head fit those sounds
like a hand fits a glove;
it suited you.
Now it tightens your clothes
and puts dye in your hair;
it shifts you.
In your mind there’s a buzz,
in your eyes a blank stare;
it blinds you.
It crawls in your ear
from the headphones you wear;
it uses you.
And you feel in your brain
as it multiplies there;
it consumes you.
Your mouth is not yours
and your heart pumps with fear;
it controls you.
And the boys screaming out
is the last thing you hear as
it takes you.
Blind
If there was a way
to reach back through the lens,
to reverse to that day
and return to those friends
with the things I know now
and converse with my past
and explain to him how
all he loves will not last,
he would not want to hear,
and he’d tell me I’m wrong.
He would chuckle and sneer,
and he’d tell me he’s strong,
that it’s not an affair,
and that he can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.
He’d not want to believe
what his future would find.
It’s my past that I see.
To his future he’s blind.
*
Now I look at my life
and at how it has changed,
and at once I realize:
it’s exactly the same.
I’ve a girl in my arms
who assures me she cares,
but our long-lasting bonds,
others say, are not there.
I still don’t want to hear,
and I think they are wrong.
I deny all my fear,
and I lie that I’m strong,
that it’s not an affair,
and that I can’t mistake
the sweet smile that she wears
for a fabulous fake.
I can’t tell what will come;
all I know is behind.
To my past I am dumb.
To my future I’m blind.
The Valentine Plan
As I stood there in the lightly falling snow, feet frozen to my driveway, watching the silver Toyota pull away, I went over the whole ordeal in my head and tried to make sense of it. I slipped my hand into the front pocket of my white jacket and found the single pink conversation heart I knew was there. I popped it into my mouth and bit down.
I’d been planning for that day, February 14th, for a while. By the time my mom drove me to Target to look for a present, the plan was already taking form. “How about this one?” she asked, holding a stuffed pink bear up to her face.
I frowned. “No, it’s posed; it’s too stiff. I want to get her something soft, something she can hug.”
Disappointed, she placed the bear back on the shelf and we continued our search. That was when a white dog with pink spots caught my eye. I reached out to stroke it, and my fingertips barely registered its fur. I grinned. It was perfect.
We left the store with the stuffed dog, a package of heart-shaped Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a gift bag my mother insisted was “adorable” and “perfect.” When we got back home, I booted up my computer and put the finishing touches on the drawing I’d made for her. It was of a particularly pleasant dream she’d had where we fell asleep against a tree together. I printed it out, carefully mounted it on some thicker paper, and slipped it into the bag alongside the other items. Satisfied, I hid it all away in my room and nervously awaited the fourteenth of February.
It was the night of the thirteenth that the final and greatest part of the plan came to mind. At that time, I still had Virgin Lips; I’d never been kissed. Well, things were different now, weren’t they? Never before had a girl and I shared mutual feelings of attraction, and the sudden thought of finally experiencing my first kiss was thrilling. And tomorrow was Valentines Day. What could be more perfect? I froze, my mind working, thinking of a way, until my eyes strayed toward my hand. I’d been idly chewing on seasonal Valentine hearts, and the one I held in my hand at that exact moment bore the perfect, simplest message: “Kiss Me.”
I didn’t spend long thinking it all through. Maybe if I had, it would have all gone over smoothly. But the sun went down and came back up, I went off to school, and when it was over, I nervously fidgeted at the passenger side door of her older sister’s car. She took me home every day. After what seemed like twenty minutes, she walked out of the school, arm in arm with her boyfriend Matt. In my mind, I replaced them with my special girl and me. It made me smile. They finally reached the car, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
The two of us hadn’t kissed on the cheek yet. This sudden realization struck me like a javelin to the heart. I was trying to skip a step! I couldn’t do that! Could I? Wasn’t that against the rules? I didn’t know!
It’s okay, I said to myself. Just go ahead with the plan. It’ll all work out.
“Guess what Matt got me for Valentine’s Day?” the sister asked as she started the car.
“What?” I asked.
She grinned widely and raised one hand to her neck. “This necklace!” She leaned over slightly, still keeping her eyes up, and held it out so I could see it. It glittered like ice in the winter sun.
I forced a smile. “Wow, that’s really nice!”
But nothing could distract me. When the dirty tan brick of the junior high building came into view, I began choking on a nervous lump in my throat. We parked in front and the younger sister, my girl, came out. My heart fluttered a bit more than usual. I gave her a smile as she climbed into the back seat. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I said.
“I had the worst day today!” she fumed. “Sterling was being such a jerk to me.”
Our next destination in our daily routine was my house. That was when I would tell the two sisters to wait, go inside, and come back out with the gift and, most importantly, the heart. For the entire duration of the trip, she talked about how horrible her day had been. I sympathized with her, and wanted to somehow help her feel better, but somewhere in the back of my head, I was worried. Would she still want to kiss me, despite her furious mood?
I clasped my hands tightly to keep them from shaking. We were pulling down my street now. Slowly, we rolled to a stop in front of my house. I turned to the back seat. “Wait here, I have something for you.” Quickly, I jumped out and ran inside, nearly slipping on my icy porch. The gift was waiting for me on the living room couch, just where I’d left it. I performed a swift search of the contents to make sure everything was in place (it was), and then I picked up the heart. I looked at it, at its simple message, and instantly, doubts flooded my mind. How would I give it to her? Just pull it out of my pocket and hand it to her? Wouldn’t that be a little strange? What if my lips are chapped? What if my breath smells bad? Should I go get a mint? No, no time! What should I say? Should I say anything? What will her sister think? Will she tell her mom? Her mom hates me already! Will I ever be allowed to see her again?
I took a deep breath and cleared my head. The answers would come to me when the time was right. There was nothing to worry about. I put the heart into the front pocket of my jacket, grasped the gift bag’s pink handles tightly, and confidently swaggered out the door.
In my head, I imagined her standing by the car, waiting for me with a gift of her own in her hands. But she wasn’t there. She was still sitting inside. A minor setback, I told myself. When I approached, she got out. There was nothing in her hands. “Sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t get you anything…”
I shrugged. “That’s alright.” I honestly didn’t care at that point; I just wanted to get it over with. I accidentally glanced at her lips. They sparkled with freshly-applied lip gloss. Did she have the same idea? My heart skipped.
I held out the bag. I’d imagined that she would take her time and go through the contents slowly, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced inside and quickly thanked me. Before I knew it, she was pulling me in for our daily hug. Wait! What about the heart? What about the kiss? My mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening! I pressed my arms against her back and played along. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe once we stopped, I would quickly give it to her before she got back in and left. Yes, that’s what I would do.
What happened next occurred so quickly that I did not have time to react. While I was thinking, she pulled her head back slightly and turned her face toward me. For a split-second, she waited. That was when I was supposed to turn my head as well, and our lips would meet and the heavens would open and concourses of angels would sing hallelujahs.
I hesitated.
Before I could make a conscious decision, she made her move, and her lips landed on my cheek, pressed lightly, once, and then it was over. She got back in the car with the gift and shut the door, and her sister pulled away, leaving me there, standing in the snow, confused and frustrated.
I had just missed my chance. I still had Virgin Lips. My plan had failed.
The car drove out of sight, and I let the candy dissolve on my tongue. After all my planning, after all my hopes and imaginings, I was still standing alone, my first kiss still only a dream. I felt robbed. It was unfair. And yet I knew I only had myself to blame. She’d offered it to me, and I hadn’t taken it. Why? Because I was thinking too hard about how I would do it. I chuckled dryly. It was so ironic! Because I’d tried so hard and been so excited, I’d forgotten to plan out the most important parts, and froze when it didn’t go like I imagined. Because of this, I failed. And although my cheek tingled a little and was slightly sticky to the touch, that trophy was not the one I wanted.
And yet, as I passed back over the day, I slowly began to realize something. Every past Valentine’s Day had been one of heartache. For so long, I’d wished for what everyone else already seemed to have: a special someone. Didn’t I receive my wish this year? Sure, my attempt at my first kiss was a failure, but there would be tomorrow, and many days after that. If I had not developed my Valentine plan, this day would have been just like any other. There would have less of a gift and no candy heart. Of course, I also wouldn’t have been so worried, I wouldn’t have shaken so badly, and I wouldn’t still be standing in the snow, but although part of me wanted to complain about these things, another part of me knew; this Valentine’s Day was the most exciting and enjoyable one I’d ever had. It hadn’t been another lonely and jealous day of watching other couples exchange affections; it had been my day. I thought of this with a smile itching at my lips as I walked up the driveway and into the house.
From that point on, I always remembered one thing when I thought of Valentine’s Day: plans rarely work out the way you want them to. Sometimes they lead to the same end result with only minor changes. Sometimes they fail miserably and leave all your hopes in ruins. But despite all the bad luck and poor planning in the world, sometimes they turn out even better.
Sweat Rags for Spending
There once was a man with some cash
who’d collected a rather large stash.
He’d sniff it each day
‘fore he put it away
and he felt that it gave him much class.
Do you smell the
Odorous scent
Left over from
Legions of
Anxious American palms
Reeking of
Sweat?
