moonloon

In the yard there grew a tree, Massive and great with Hefty branches that stretched Up and up and up For a hundred years. On those branches were A million leaves, with veins That soaked the sun and grew and grew and grew For a hundred years. The seasons came and changed the tree, caused the leaves to go Green to gold to brown to gone Over and over and over For a hundred years. Until one day the tree fell down, Fell Down and down and down As the branches Snapped and snapped and snapped And the leaves turned Brown and brown and brown For the tree had been rotting From the inside out  For a hundred years.

Lord, she could hear the voices again. They were these little things that silently deafened her from the inside out. These voices that buzzed and fluttered inside her head like blind, stupid moths. They tapped against her skull relentlessly and noisily and she just needed to make them stop! --------------- "Oh! Stop!" she shouted, and Henry instinctively slammed on the break. He looked over at Lane, who was already unbuckling her seatbelt. He saw no signs of fear or anxiety on her face, and he followed her line of vision to a field of flowers along the dusty road they'd been traveling. "Lane." Henry groaned, but she was already getting ou

I have to say, before we begin, that I am terrible with memories. My head doesn't carry events to be recalled in a linear fashion, but a haphazard collection of feelings and sights that last for a split second and no more. In fact, for some of them, they don't even last for that second. These things are immeasurable by time, because how do you measure an emotion with time? How do you measure a sight with time? How do you measure a person, a relation? These are the things my memories are made of – fractions, raw materials and residue that didn't quite make it through the system and lingers. It's all made up of non-linear snippets and movi

  She is smiling. She's laughing, really. She's laughing in that silent way that really counts.  There is a mass of trees and vines behind her where pale purple flowers hang. They are the kinds of flowers that bees enjoy buzzing around. I remember avoiding them when I was younger, because I'd always been afraid of bees.  Apparently she'd never been afraid of bees (or anything). If there are any bees there, she doesn't pay them any mind. Just like she doesn't pay any mind to the strands of long, brown hair that have flown across her face to stick against her lipgloss. It's vanilla-cherry flavored. It's always vanilla-cherry flavored, I don