Issue 2: Prose

A collection of Prose form our Kalliope Members

My mouth is open, but never heard

Emily Kohn

The signals from my brain are not intertwined. The air in my lungs is unable to provide its fuel. Air cannot—and will not—pass through my vocal cords. They refuse to vibrate. My mouth, teeth, and lips will never coordinate as one. My tongue is twisted, unable to be manipulated. Although in reality my hands are in front of me, my nerves jolt and flow. The power to sway and glide through one’s fingertips takes form within me. And now, I can finally speak.

Still eyes, shattered mind

Aaron Chachkes

My eyes blink awake slowly, like every day. My bed is cold and dusty. The gunk in my eyes is persistent this morning. Stretch, feel nothing, yawn, no air. My head is floating more than usual, I'm drifting away oh so slowly.

Oh I remember what I wanted to do today.

Getting up is easier than normal. I don't bother getting dressed up in normal clothes. I open the stained widow to my cruddy apartment. Sweep back my hair as if the wind is blowing through it. And fall through.

The walk to the park is uneventful, people don't look my way and I avoid them as much as one can. There’s a mother and her daughter holding hands as they walk. It's sad in a funny way to me. I bring my pale hands to rub my bony arms as if I could feel some warmth, or cold.

The lake is stagnant today, it's been that way for a while. The ducks are few and far between and some congregate in front of an old woman who’s throwing them stale bread crumbs. Her hands are wrinkled and shaky. Her eyes are cloudy with cataracts yet so bright. She runs out of breadcrumbs for the ducks as I sit besides her, she asks if I have any. I whisper no as I stand and give her a kiss on her stringy hair. She turns her blinding eyes to me briefly, she doesn't see much.

After the lake I walked to the local art studio. The easel I always used to use is now occupied. A young man with wild colored hair and eye bags. He’s an abstract artist, to be generous. Swirls and colors that don't make much sense to my stale mind. Actually, I think I can see a bird in the blue, or maybe a car in the pink, or even a cross in the purple. I stand behind him as he works, lost in the sea of hues and lights. Eventually he gets tired, and packs up his things. I continue to stare.

The studio is now closed, I had been there too long. No one noticed me of course, but it still stung. I wanted a drink. A quick walk to the 7-11 was fruitful. The doors remained shut, until a cat happened to walk in and I followed after. The only employee this late was a young girl with piercings and too much eye shadow. She was nearly falling asleep at the register, only to be woken up by the cat and having to shoo it out. The distraction was nice. I picked a simple can of french vanilla coffee. I had no cash on me, but I didn't care. As the girl got the cat out with a broom I held the coffee over her head as I walked out.

Back home again. My apartment is just as messy as I left it, I giggled a bit. Taking the coffee I open the tab and put it in my hand. “Hopefully this will wake you up.” I say to my body rotting on the couch.