I remember when I fell asleep with you
for the first time.
I was scared to. I didn’t want
to be late for my curfew but
you reassured me “It’s okay, I’ll watch the clock for you.”
So I trusted you.
I rested my head on your shoulder
you put your arm around me
I put my arm over you.
My internal alarm clock woke me up 45 minutes after my curfew.
You fell asleep too.
That should have been my first warning.
I never could trust you to keep your word.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
” ‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
(From left, Emilie Azoulay, Elisa Cammarota and Anthony Azoulay get to choose articles at a meeting at the Mon Quotidien office.)
“Both Elisa and Anthony are 10 years old and entering the fifth grade in the fall. And both are regular subscribers to one of the most popular daily newspapers in France.
On a recent morning, the two children sat at a large rectangular table with several of the newspaper’s editors. The paper, Mon Quotidien, or My Daily, invites several of its readers twice weekly to help edit the paper, except for the front page, choosing stories that will be featured in its seven other pages.
The national editor, Caroline Hallé, was proposing an article about a school in Britain that had bought hawks and falcons to drive off a plague of seagulls that were dirtying the premises.
Alternatively, she proposed news of how divers had recently found bottles of French Champagne that King Louis XVI had sent to the czar of Russia, but had gone down when the ship transporting them sank in the Baltic Sea.
‘How did Louis XVI end?’ asked Olivier Gasselin, 40, the paper’s deputy editor.
‘Guillotine,’ Elisa shot back, without raising her eyes from the notes she was making.”
One of the rare times that I wish I was 10 again.
brain cells bursting. nerves overworking. acid lips. work your hips. move closer. a new order. over analyze over too much time. words slip. losing it. losing yourself in the mind of someone else. doesn’t take too long now. soft skin of golden brown. your eyes. mirror images of mine. full of battle cries. scars from the war. body sore. you say, “with you i can feel once more.”
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House.
If I can ever write an opening paragraph as good as that, I will count myself very fortunate indeed.