#atns

Pretty Little Babyꪆৎ — atn

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Horizon Event

You and I

Stand together

At the edge of the world

Watching finality come into view

Nothing ever feels like it's really over

Until it's done

The stars are falling

The clocks are stopping

Everything known can't be relearned

I hold your hand

As the sun sets on all of us

The prophets failed to remark upon

How beautifully apocalypse appears

The spectacle of explosion

The grace of falling

The art of the end

You look at me with tears in your eyes

I can't be sure why they're there

My tears in my eyes

Stir a similar question within you

Dorothy Cottonwood's History

Dorothy Cottonwood was born to two parents and an older brother in a too small hospital room. She was mostly healthy as an infant, though a few minor concerns crept their way into her being's periphery. She never cried as a baby.

Dorothy Cottonwood read many kinds of books as a child, though fantasy stories were her favorite. At night, while lying in bed, waiting for sleep to visit, she pictured herself as a magical witch, able to help and to hinder whoever she wanted.

Dorothy Cottonwood had few friends. She tried to connect with her peers, but there seemed to be a strange dissonance between her and the others. As if she spoke in frequencies barely perceptible to their ears. She ate lunch in whatever corner she could find.

Dorothy Cottonwood worked at a corner store once she was old enough. She liked to keep the register particularly organized, with bills pressed flat and coins neatly stacked. Her manager gave her shit for it. An old regular stared at her at least once a week.

Dorothy Cottonwood failed a geometry test. Her father and mother looked at her with a new dullness in their eyes, one previously reserved for her brother. Her brother was away for school, so she couldn't ask him how to protect herself from it. She talked less at dinnertime.

Dorothy Cottonwood laid on the roof of her childhood home. She found comfort in staring at the multitude of stars, that infinite array of minuscule diamonds that returned each night. They reminded her how small everything was, despite how large it all felt. She sometimes would fall asleep up there.

Dorothy Cottonwood was accepted into her third choice college. There was lax fanfare, pushed excitement for something that could only be described as "not-the-worst-case-scenario." Her parents got her a hat with the college's logo on it, which she never wore. She was glad to be moving out of state.

Dorothy Cottonwood met her future husband at a party she was begrudgingly attending with her roommate. There was no spark between them, but he kept looking at her. They had a literature class together the following semester, which cemented their vague connection. His name was Dalton. He knew very little about narrative structure.

Dorothy Cottonwood ran down the sidewalk on bare feet. She held her uncomfortable shoes in a frustrated fist and the wind pulled her hair from her ears. Though the pebbles and glass on the ground would callus her feet, she felt a new kind of freedom running. Just running.

Dorothy Cottonwood went home twice before graduating. First for a Christmas, and second for her brother's funeral. He died in a car accident.

Dorothy Cottonwood wanted to be an archivist but instead became a middle school teacher. She didn't care for children, but figured it would be a nice thing to do while still figuring the trajectory of her life. She worked at the same school for thirty years.

Dorothy Cottonwood got married to Dalton. She kept her last name. Her love for him was real, but never quite right, like her heart didn't beat quick enough. They bought a house together that she filled with furniture she thought was pretty. Her favorite fixture was their giant ornate bookshelf. They almost got divorced twice.

Dorothy Cottonwood rarely talked to her mother as an adult. Her mother resented her for not having children. Dorothy didn't mind, though there was now a subtle quiet in her life.

Dorothy Cottonwood loved to paint flowers. On Sundays, she would buy a bouquet from the florist on the corner and paint them with imported oil paints. She hung up her paintings around the house in thrifted frames, but refused to sign them. Whenever an errant guest blew through, she claimed she found the paintings at a garage sale.

Dorothy Cottonwood tried to mourn the loss of her brother, her father, and eventually her husband, but the grief only ever materialized in a light drizzle. People were sorry for her losses and she wanted to reject their apologies. But a cold smile was all she could muster. Maybe the occasional tear, if she focused.

Dorothy Cottonwood always wore sweaters. She liked feeling warm. She liked feeling soft things against her arms. She never learned how to crochet or knit, but her neighbor did and gifted Dorothy a new sweater twice a year. In return, she baked them scones.

Dorothy Cottonwood returned to fantasy novels in her old age. She found herself reading simpler and simpler stories as the years rolled on. One day, she found herself clutching a picture book, hardly able to make out the words. The picture showed a wizard wearing a starry robe. She stared at it for hours.

Dorothy Cottonwood forgot her own name before she forgot her childhood home's address. Every night in the final week of her life, she dreamt of laying on the roof again. In the dream, she rolled off the rough, sloped surface and sank into a pond of night sky.

Dorothy Cottonwood died alone, after orbiting seventy-five times around the nearest star. 

hot water treatment

i want to be boiled like a lobster

metamorphose from gray to red

have hot tub delusion fill up my skull

feel the bubbles burn into my skin

i'll submit to the steam and the scalding

be reduced into bones and wet lard

my memory of cold will evaporate

as i marinate in water and flame

they can serve up my corpse with some butter

use hammers to shatter what's left

may the toxins be killed with my body

paper crown

my paper crown is tearing

reduced to crumpled scraps

with power fraught and flimsy

I'm forced to face my lack

simplicity's a virtue

that cannot always reign

sometimes it serves its purpose

sometimes it's torn in vain

the intricate has reason

the complex plays its part

the basic's good beginning

but what's beyond the start

and can a piece of paper

play the role of gold

the quality of symbol

viability foretold

my cardboard throne is caving

my plastic scepter breaks

perhaps this is a lesson

that more is what it takes

more in time and effort

cement will outlast glue

if i wish to be lasting