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Mrs. LubonekNobody knew how old the Luboneks were, but they’d lived at the top of Pecan Hill since before Cumberland was built, and the town grew up around them. Mr. Lubonek had a voice like gravel and always smelled of engine grease, sweat, and the gritty scent of someone whose friends were machines and whose family were the tools he kept in the shed. Mrs. Lubonek was airy as a bird and every bit as flighty, yet there was a sharp, witty glint in her eye that you only caught if you were looking for it.

The Luboneks lived a simple, dusty life atop Pecan Hill. Mr. Lubonek ran a small mechanic shop out of his garage and Mrs. Lubonek sold baked goods.

Heart, Have No PityThe train sways from side to side, gray subway lights washing away all color from the world, and the shuffle on his music player is playing only the songs Jesper hates. He hits the skip button again and again, tries to keep his briefcase pinned between his legs. There is a coffee stain on his shirt, but he did not have enough time to sprint to his bedroom and change before he had to leave to make his train on time. He cannot afford to be late again.

Skip-skip-skip. He should stop allowing his sister into his apartment; she always deletes his good music and replaces it with pop that Jesper despises. He thinks he hears his station being called

Infinite Infinitesimal InfinitiesInfinite Infinitesimal Infinities

Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.

Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of drea

The Tapping Next DoorFor most of my life I had lived in the same apartment. It was on the third floor and overlooked the busy city. It was also directly next to another apartment, which means you could hear everything going on behind the right-hand side bedroom wall.

I would occasionally hear faint noises coming from behind the wall. There would be scraping, which I assumed was the sound of a chair being pulled along a wooden floor. Sometimes voices could be heard. I guessed they were either from the residents living there or from a TV or radio. And then there was the banging.

The banging was a rare occurrence, but whenever it happened it really annoyed me. Why

Remover

She decided a young woman like her had no business being imperfect. Impurities had to be expelled from her life, no matter the cost. A universal remover promised to be her savior. It lived up to its commercials, doing away with the stains that disgraced her floor and some of the walls.

Would domestic hygiene free her from being flawed? Doubtful. This product guaranteed to exterminate any kind of filth. Could it go beyond the material things? She rubbed the substance on her forehead, and conjured as many negative thoughts as possible. They were recalled, only to vanish from memory a second after.

Satisfied? Not quite. Even the good recollect

Lady of 1876 Ironically, it was my stubbornness which caused me to change my convictions. Though Nathaniel was undoubtedly a kind-hearted young man, he was incurably delusional. He entertained the strangest ideas, and then in his spare time vehemently tried to convince me they were true. People, sentient people, could be built from simple mechanical parts, he insisted.

“All you’d need is a boiler and some clockwork. Just as you’ve got, Adelaide. Just as your inventor must’ve done,” he’d say. I usually ignored these benign ramblings and proceeded with what I was best at, namely repairing clocks and pocket watches. Nat

The Letter WriterHe was a letter writer.

Written letters had long become a thing of the past—after all, why would one write when one could receive instant gratification through an electronic device? All of these things made life so much easier.

In fact, Alan lived in a time where most people didn't know how to write. Everyone was proficient in reading, of course—after all, one had to read the daily screen to know the news and things that were going on. And all children learned how to type before they were five years old. But writing was not something that was used anymore, and it had become almost socially unacceptable to write anything. It wasn't

SorrowbirdI watched him flap helplessly between the teeth of a barbwire fence, screeching for help.

"Papa, look Papa! A boy!"

My papa stood dazed for a moment, dust billowing at his legs, his eyes teetering along the field. It wasn't until later that evening he told me he hadn't understood what I had seen. What he had seen.

With grass tickling the backsides of my legs, I bounded toward the boy, "What are you doing? Are you okay?"

As I approached him, I felt his skittish eyes rake across my every movement. With his ten-year-old arms slung inside the gaping maw of a fence and darkened feathers pasted along the creases of his face; he looked squarely

Lies.Her skin was so tight and crisp and with my touch it seemed like it melted away.

It was the color of caramel.

On her breasts there were goosebumps, as i brush my hand against it.

Her smell filled my nostrils and over took my senses.

She was there sitting in front of me. Begging me to eat her.

I must have her.

I undressed her hungrily, biting her, savoring her.

For i have waited to long for my princess.

With a tug, here there, her meat slipped away from her bone as she gave in to my lust.

"MICHAEL are you done with your fried chicken?!
Uh... Yes ma!"

And like that he left her naked and alone.

Photograph Six year old Rose decided that today would be the day she asked her grandmother about the painting.

It always held her interest, magic upon a canvas. Perhaps it was the rich colors that shimmered under the perfect lighting. It could have been the girl captured within the painting. Maybe it was all of those things, but she had an idea on what it truly was—the eyes.

They were created by the tip of a brush, but carried more life than anything she had ever seen. Color of ice blue, they carried familiarity, warming the inside of her chest. The more she stared, the stronger it felt.

Rose entered her grandmother's living room to see her standing

MemoriesI remember lying in bed with you, longing for a deeper connection. You would always sleep with your back to me, in an almost fetal position, as if you were physically guarding your heart. All I wanted was to touch those scars that ran down the center of your chest, but you told me you were not okay with someone else's heart beating within you so I let it be. The look in your eyes when you woke up in the morning; the sleepy surrealness of a dream playing at the corner of your lips, and the early morning light goldenly surrounding your messy hair like a halo was enough to quench any thirst I had for you. It was enough to resonate in me for a lo

The Stick PeopleIn a town called Rushing Water, there lived a woodcarver with no face.
When we were small, my brothers and I, Daddy would sometimes take us to visit her. We would sit there at her kitchen table, amazed, as this woman with no eyes – and indeed no nose or mouth – would pour out our tea without spilling a drop.
I was frightened of her because she looked so strange, so grotesque. All the other days of my life, I encountered people with faces – square faces, oval faces, faces round and smiling like the moon with slanted eyes or big dark ones or little beady bird eyes. Snub noses, Romans or long, thin, birdlike ones like mine. Yet here was a wom

Preparations"Honestly...I'm a little scared," she admitted.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her. "It's nothing to be afraid of."

"It's different for you; you've done all of this before. I-I haven't. It's my first time, so I have no idea what to do." She was so nervous that she was shaking, but at the same time her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

"Stop worrying, babe. Just follow my lead and you'll do fine."

When she looked at him, she could see it in his eyes. He was ready to go, but she was holding him back. She was still afraid, but he was worth it. If he was ready to go there, then so was she.

"Alright then," she took a deep breath in a

something is wrong hereeverything is alright, he thinks.
this is how he always finds himself. lying in his bed and waiting for a thunderstorm. he can almost feel the smell of damp grass. he stretches his arms. it feels good.
everything feels fine even though rays of sunshine cut his body into thin slices. the sun is toiling at full power, but he lies unperturbed. everything seems hazy and dreamlike.
his body is already thawing into a reverie, but the tip of his mind observes acutely.

it will be easier to succeed than they say, he thinks. it's all simple. you gotta think like a man, act like a man. then you can break out of this daze.

or even better, maybe the thu

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She was full of clichés, but how could I have resisted? I'm a sucker for a cute face - and I never teased her about her whiskers; I've no time for people who won't accept a lady with facial hair.

Perhaps it was this unconventional self-satisfaction that lured me to her. I don't know many women who are comfortable with their own armpit-hair, let alone almost having a moustache; I have to confess, she

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---

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the strawberry tart

by ~XanthiaB, Jan 2, 2013, 4:39:08 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

One afternoon I bought a tart for thirty dollars.

Didn't seem like much at the time, just a couple of bills out of my back pocket, for a tart about three-quarters the size of my fist, laden with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

I popped a strawberry in my mouth and I liked it, so I took another bite. Didn't like the whipped cream so much. Ate the strawberries, the edges of the chocolate pastry, and threw the rest of the tart away.

When I turned around and strolled back home, I felt the sunshine on my face and I thought that this world could do with a little more happiness, this bliss of a bright afternoon, more often.

Then I rounded the corner and saw an old lady. My hands dropped to my sides, out of my pockets. Saw her clear as day, next to the trash can, picking out pieces of cardboard to sell to a recycling centre.

Bright sunshine, brutally bright, shining on a woman with a crooked back and silver hair and a face lined with the weight of the world. Hands weighed with cardboard. It wouldn't earn her much: maybe a dollar, maybe two. Wouldn't amount to thirty.

I stood there that afternoon after spending thirty dollars on a tart I hadn't liked, in the warm sunshine, seeing an old woman digging for her living in a pile of trash—and I thought that the world could do more with a little less of those like me.

the strawberry tartby ~XanthiaB

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

Happy New Year. ^^

*Edit* Featured in the Daily Literature Deviations for January 27th, 2013: [link]

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© Xanthia B., 2013