Describing Waves


Shimmering crescendo waves bloomed as a stone dived its way in, sinking to the bottom, as they do.


The tip of my finger sunk through the surface, my smoldering skin singing and the hiss seemed to follow the outpouring waves.


I was pushed into the lake, with one hand outstretched from his shaded face and by the small glimmers of sun that peaked through his bangs, he smiled, and when I banged through the surface, I listened to the outpouring waves that left where my body came and I clawed forward, reaching for the surface. When I popped out, I saw him, looking at me, his hands still outstretched, where my body used to be, and I told him, “what kind of father pushes their own son into a lake?” and he looked at me, his eyes hiding behind the shadows that painted over his face, and he lowered his hand, and he stared through me.


We baked pancakes by the lake. The stones we used were cold by the shore, but as the evening went on, she gave me her scarf. My first stone barely made a skip, plopping into the lake, a solid wave expanding and then dissipating. She laughed at that. But when she went, hers went straight down as well. I laughed, and then I winded my arms, and shot another stone, watching as it made two skips before plopping in. The two waves it made both collided at the apex of their travel, the interference blending their lines together. She whistled, smiled, winded, and bellowed her breath, her golden hair finding the sun, and her stone was off. Not a single skip. We laughed.


We wanted to see if we could see it so we tightened the string between our cups, and we walked as far as it took us. She tugged when I tried to keep moving forward indicating that she couldn’t move backwards. Then, I pressed my ears in my cup, and waited. Soon, her words whispered within the small silence in the air. When she was done speaking, she ended her sentence in an, “all done.” Then I brought my mouth to the opening of the cup, the string taped towards the small circle pointing at me. I spoke, and told her that I heard her loud and clear. I ended my sentence in an, “all done.” She spoke back, and she told me to hold my cup as still as possible and yet also not holding it so that I could influence the string. I ended up balancing it lightly on my palms. And, without further words, I watched. After a few minutes, I brought my cup back to my ears and listened to her ask me if I could see anything move with the strings.  I said no. And she said it was a shame, that she really wanted to see if our words could be physically tracked through the string. I told her she was weird. And she said she knew.


A short writing exercise, where I take a subject or broad subject, in this case “waves” and really narrow it down and put it into something specific, expanding on the subject as much as possible and describing a feeling or moment.


12 Word Story Practice

Tiny drops pitter patter as the sun waits to raise its rays.

A brief wind blows warm brushes towards our dripping cones and hands.

The sound of zzzz and zzzz soon turn into buzzzz and buzzzz.

In the distance, snow falls, tiny whites littering the earth…a mirage.

Our skyline bleeds orange afterglows even after the crawling moon softly wanes.

Butterfly nets empty, hands wet in sweat that form tiny puddle splash.

Staccato steps fill the air in light flares of empty restful days.

Even so, even yet, even though, we haven’t yet found a way.

I woke up with winter gone, and spring had yet to bloom.


The theme around this patch of 12 word stories was “Summer Moments.”

Ebb and Flow

Ebb and Flow

You talk, I talk. You watch, I watch. You reach, I hold. You fall, I catch. You know, I know. You don’t, I do. You hum, I sing. You lose, I win. You crawl, I walk. You walk, I run. You close, I open. For we, are one. Except that’s only me my words my way of trying saying that we can be one in the same way that you don’t say a single thing in the same way that we are always going to be like a tide chasing after one another but that’s not the way we are either that’s the way I want us to be and so I’ll say that when you talk I talk and when you watch I’ll watch and when you fall I’ll catch so keep falling and I’ll always catch. That’s all I can do.

Today Nothing Important Happens

Today Nothing Important Happens

And that’s fine. That’s really fine.

It’s almost as fine as being allowed to breathe the same air

every single day. It’s almost as fine as being able

to smile at the smallest things as they come, at the

strangest things as they appear, at things that don’t matter

to the future, but matter now.


Today nothing important happens: and I’m fine, since

Today the world hasn’t ended, and I’m still breathing, and

I can still reach up to the sky and watch as clouds drip

apart from my fingers and the city is still loud but closing my

eyes it all falls away and it’s only in the swaying winds

that I can see that Today nothing important happens, but I’m still alive.


Today nothing important happens, so I’ll mark this day

in my calendar and say that I’m not one step closer

to achieving my dreams (If I had any) nor am I one step

closer to being a “better” person (whatever that means)

nor have I become someone special (not that I want to.)


Today nothing important happens, so I’ll smile

and I’ll take a while to listen, to myself, for once,

and I know that the world hasn’t ended, so things

are going to be fine, and if things aren’t fine, then

I’ll just wait another day.


Where We Stand

Where We Stand

“I’ll always be above this line.

Here, the water is drenched in some kind of rust but,”

maybe it’ll be treated and if treated I won’t have to say

that being here drains me, but I can live here, and I can taste the water here.

Here, I’ll know where you’ll be, and you’ll always know

the sun bleeds orange onto the pavement. And

splotches of paint, end up where leaves gather on manholes, where

It’s just, sometimes, always, empty, by my side, but that’s okay since

I’ll always be above this line.

Below this line, is where I’ll be.

Here. And I know that

I can see shades of orange, bleeding into the pavement;

loose splotches of paint from the bulbs, coming together,

the stars, the moon,

Every step echoes in a crunch as leaves break. It all molds,

My eyes shut tightly to let it all find me, a soft ebb and flow.

Then I stop. The streetlights flicker, and it leaves an afterimage.

It’s empty. I can almost see you.

I stretch my arms to find you, but when I open my eyes.


And then I remember, where you are and I’ll say,

“Below this line, is where I’ll be.”

Tell Me When It Rains

Tell Me When It Rains

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.

And if you do I’ll drift my hands over the balcony, letting it drip onto my fingers.

And if you do I’ll make sure to open my windows and let the humidity linger, my plants soaking, no longer lounging in its hunger.

And if you do I’ll know when to throw up my wind chimes, singing with the rain, a ballet for a storm, ringing with a short shingle, dancing with the small drips that find its way onto the fading iron.

And if you do I’ll know when to watch for errant bolts of lightning that may cause forest fires or damage to property, living or not, and listen for the thunder, shaking my pulse pulling my blood blaring rumbles across my chest chaining my legs letting it all freeze.

And if you do I’ll make sure to have my blinds closed so that only the small glimmers of the droplets find their way as I listen to the pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter.

And if you do I’ll drift through my sleep, the soft songs luring its way into my weighted eyes.

And if you do I’ll bring an umbrella.


I like the rain, and the snow. The feelings that emerge from it, the stillness, the way things seem to change despite nothing really changing. So here, I wanted to do a little bit of an endeavor, a little bit of play on structure, and also to express some motions about rain. Just something short, and sweet, I think.