mimi_zou_lou's profile

Teachers who read my stories say that we're past existentialism. We're post-modernists now. that's us. Literature is now about meaning. if we can create the ideal juxtaposition of light and dark then we've got it. I wonder if my stories do have any meaning. if my teachers simply didn't get it, and because of this have determined that what I've written asserts the general message that everything is meaningless. Probably not. They're trained professionals in art. I curl the edges of my notebook...

This is my arm and I'll let you study the pattern of freckles and even trace the jagged gray scar where my cat scratched me when I took away the used tampon she knocked out of the trash and was playing with (i think she thought it was a mouse) She didn't cut deep but I kept scratching and picking at it because i'm a nervous girl but i'm waiting to not be i'm waiting to be composed and graceful but until then you can put your ear right against my chest and hear my heart beat...this is me can y...

If you open a newspaper there are people to hate selected for you. Hell, if you open your eyes you can select your own. It’s harder to realize that people are people, and when you really open your eyes, it just doesn’t seem right to hate anyone. Consider the heartbeat of one man, and all of the limbs attached to him that always seem to get in the way. Consider the systolic and diastolic readings a measurement of time, compressed by reality. -- Clayton was a drunk who spent most of his time c...

You can feel sorry for both Clayton and Angela. Both happen to be victims of a string of unfortunate events that until now have not intertwined. This can be said for anyone. Above all, this is the story of past ghosts and present actions, as all stories are. -- He was a drunk who spent most of his time cursing women. He spoke colorfully about many ladies of the night as well as a few women he supposedly didn’t have to pay. They were all whores in his eyes, but when he woke up hung over and t...

Her left foot was asleep, so she lifted it. Her ankle was pinkish-red and had tiny bumpy indentations from the mottled carpet of Mark’s basement. He was a senior in high school, and she was a sophomore. She watched attentively as he took a small plastic Ziploc bag (reminding her of the bags containing the tiny rubber bands when she had braces) from the inside zip pocket of his army green utility jacket. He placed the bag on the coffee table. His confident movements suggested a sense of routin...