A Lovers Stargaze

She loved sitting at the back of a ship.

The sun never felt too strong there and she liked it when her hairs escaped from her bun and flew in front of her vision of the deep open seas. No matter what she did to secure them, the wind would always have its way.

Sometimes she starred up into the skies and pretended the clouds were hieroglyphs that hadn’t yet been decoded. Messages, she believed were written all over the skies, but no one had the time to decipher them. She certainly didn’t either. Still, she pretended. Some clouds made her feel lonely, other made her feel light. So light she wished she were nothing but a floating speck in the center of the cloud instead of a small girl who sat on the back of a huge cruise ship.

The other cruisers wondered about her. Some of the men tried their luck to kiss her. She was too busy trying to read the clouds and wait until the rest of the passengers went to sleep. With nothing to do on the massive cruise ship, this was her favorite time of the day. Pitch black, not a soul in sight, and surrounded by the open sea. The stars dazzled her. Especially because she knew there was nothing like it back home where she would eventually have to go. Pollution and distractions of everyday life clouded the nighttime skies where she was from. Clarity was rare when your thoughts were going a thousand miles per hour but there on the boat, it was a slow tug through the parting waters. Inch by inch, wave after wave.

So every night when the last drunk man had stumbled into his bed, unlucky with ladies and equally in roulettes, she could be found in a sun chair sitting underneath a blanket of brilliant stars in the early hours of the Atlantic Ocean.

She cuddled herself with an oversized coat and tried to piece together her life with the shapes of the constellations above. An I became apparent and she thought about how selfish she was no matter how much she tried to give herself to everyone who asked. She thought she saw a faint heart and remembered that no matter how much she preached love, her own had far too many hues of black and blues. Bruised and in the shadows. A shooting star razed a path and she remembered that her path must always fade, no matter how hard she wished it to burn brighter and brighter. If only we were made to be brilliant forever, she whispered. If only she had the capacity to shine like the stars in their constellations.

The small girl inhaled the wind and waited patiently for the early birds heading to the buffet to rattle her peace, and also until the stars were taken by the devil of dawn. One by one, meaning after meaning. Mouth after mouth.

She smiled in the silence. The stars always came back to her, eventually.

To the back of the ship, I go.


Lindsay Reva

Whispers and Daggers

The water never stopped dripping, even in silence.

He was high.

He was low.

The measurements of his happiness and methodical rhythms of heart could only be measured from an outsiders perspective.

He could never understand how he felt inside. Something deep inside of his mind had been broken. He knew it, and with one sideways glance, the rest of the world knew it too.

Up and down, his emotional rollercoaster went. Round and round. Weak, strong. We are so high-low, his demons would cry. But that’s all they did. What did they mind that there was no link to connect his core values to understanding. He just was.

Broken. Perhaps even beyond.

Walking down a long dirt road he appreciated the world and looked forward to tomorrow. Sunshine and wind kept him alive and he always inhaled greedily as if it were his last breath. He grudgingly opened the front door and suddenly hated mankind. He spat in his neighbors’ yards on his morning walks. When he slept he had nightmares of having his own family. In his daydreams he watched mothers play with their children and wondered if he could have been a good father and husband. What if was his constant plague. His pockets were full of contradictions and meaningless promises. His word was worthless.

And his thoughts were even worse.

Vegans were half humans in his eyes. Wasters ought to get thrown off the highest cliff. Doctors were demons. Chinese restaurants were never to be acknowledged. Peeking at young girls who wore shorts that shown more cheek than leg was his fix for the day. He had never fallen in love. He refused to wash his hands but instead became obsessed with hand sanitizer. It took hostility from passerby’s to realize that he needed a shower. Always alone. Everyone was his enemy. His shrink was a nuisance. His Dentist was a pair of pliers. Yet he felt lucky to be alive. It made him unbelievably happy to open his eyes every morning despite the fact that his every thought was a contradiction to the one before.

God, just give me peace, he prayed.

Drop after drop.

Drip. Drip. Forever high-low, drip after drip.

Hippolytus de Marsiliis (born 1451 Bologna; date of death unknown) was a lawyer and doctor utriusque iuris (Lat. ‘doctor of either law’ — one who studied civil as well as canon law). He received his doctorate in 1480 but the date at which he became a lawyer is unknown. Throughout his life, he wrote many repetitionesand notabilia on many canons and decretals. In addition, he taught Roman law beginning in the year 1482. He is best known for documenting the Chinese water torture method, in which drops of water would consistently fall on a victim’s forehead, causing the victim to go insane. He also was the first person to document sleep deprivation as a means of torture, wherein the interrogators would repeat same questions, shaking the victim at random intervals, pricking him with a sharp pin, or forcing him to march down a hallway endlessly. If the interrogators grew weary, they would switch out with another group, who then would ask the same questions (today police use this method, but it is known as the third degree).

Sammy was a young man when he was captured by enemy soldiers who mistakenly took him for a spy. Now he was just a man ruined. Yet finally freed.

His father thought the shell of a man who had once been his son had been finished by a weak mind. His mothers’ side, he mused after he saw his son’s first breakdown after returning from the war.

It wasn’t the mothers’ side though. It was something much simpler.


The slow wet drip of water, rhythmically falling one by one like a bomb on the soft shell of a human beings fine porcelain skin. Never touching the brain, suffocating the mind entirely.

Dark times my lovelies.


Lindsay Reva

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