Originally posted on The Lankville Daily News:
Sarah Samways is a contributing female.
DUMB BITCH CAN’T CONNECT
Dubbed the town’s “dumb bitch,” Abby Basic, 25, was seen running around town trying to plug cords and various wires into people as if they were wall sockets. Lifting up people’s shirts and pulling down their pants in local eateries and teen hangouts, Basic attempted to plug disconnected phone chargers, power adapters, and extension cords into patrons’ orifices. Chef and restaurateur of the popular 4 ¾ starred X86 Bistro, Mark Garabedian, was “…in complete shock” and had to restrain Basic himself with the help of an unnamed busboy.
“It was horrible. This awful woman barged in past the maître d’, covered head-to-toe in all these wires that weren’t plugged into anything and then was harassing all the patrons. She kept yelling ‘I’m trying to connect!’ and then proceeded to literally plug people. I ended up having to…
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The blurry figure in black turned out to be quite the magician. He decided the best way to deal with me was to turn into a mallard duck and turn me into a fuzzy rabbit. With a wave of his hand, we could truly converse in that very strange way that animals do. He flew and I hopped up a short staircase and into a crowded house, in hopes of finding temporary shelter from the onslaught of rain out in The Woods. I stuck my tongue down his throat and knew that we would be friends from here on out.
“I don’t believe in love,” he uttered awkwardly.
I didn’t quite believe him but perhaps that was my own sweet, sweet naiveté. I paused and looked at him for a little too long, then shook my head. We would know more about each other in time.
“This beating, awful thing in our bodies is more than just an appendage! Yours went through a meat grinder and mine went through a paper shredder but these pieces can always be retrieved and taped back together!” I cried, trying hard to believe in my own words.
“Eventually, the process, once repeated, creates too many fragile and microscopic shreds and the tape begins to loose its hold. My mending tricks and healing spells can only work so many times, my magic diminishes as the years pass. I’m not saying this out of depression, really…it’s more of pure exhaustion,” The Magician admitted.
I silently acknowledged his position and the position that most hold at critical times in their lives. It made sense. I was young, but it made sense. I vomited unresolved issues in the corner of a dark room. Outside, tree leaves were glittering with dew. I looked behind me and just like that, he was gone.
Spring has sprung!
Originally posted on The Lankville Daily News:
I sat down with horticulturist extraordinaire, Sally Bolting, as she explained to me the ways in which to care for rare plants in a fragile ecosystem. Lankville, although most notably attributed with having vast and shiny malls, also contains sprawling gardens and intricately designed shrubs. I promise they’re there, right behind the malls and to the left. Yes, those.
BOLTING: The key to every garden is patience, persistence, and potting soil. I call ‘em the three Ps…
SAMWAYS: Is there a particular brand of potting soil that you would suggest to our readers?
SB: (long pause) It’s dirt. You’re missing the point, here. Now, shut up and listen. You see these bright, yellow Fidgetywhatsits? These crimson Welldontchaknows? They need sustenance every three hours; water and sunlight on their leaves is necessary on a consistent basis.
SS: Really? That seems like overkill.
SB: In order…
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I got deeper into the darkness, chasing after that multicolored light. I basked myself in its warm and finally tangible embrace. I was safe from the cries of the misconstrued, Ol’ Bat, Teenybopper, The Specialist, and the whole fucking lot of them. I hid under a blanket of roses for awhile and refused to appear despite their calls to come out and play. When I was eventually found, all I could do was listen to what they had to say. The longer I laid under that blanket of roses, the harder it became to move – I knew I was slowly paralyzing myself. I gnawed my way through the increasingly tightening vines, blood dripping from my thorn bitten lips. I stood up.
“Nice to see you again!” they all shouted earnestly.
I was an emotional wreck that was behaving true to form but I silently chided myself because they all were too. They were giggling and puking and talking too much and not talking enough and crying and dying and living and learning and loving and dying…
The Specialist threw me a basketball and apologized for hitting me in the face with it multiple times before.
“You must think I’m the most gullible person here!” I shouted.
He threw himself on the ground and showed me his belly, as a sign of his vulnerability. I sighed. We played War, we played Manhunt, we played Hide-N’-Go-Seek , we played Poker, we played Chess. The Specialist had an arsenal of people and/or props and a tool-kit that dated back before I was even a prayer in my mother’s throat. I had just myself to rely on towards winning these games. Now, naturally it would be assumed that he would win for he had the advantage of premeditation, scholastic connections, and a penchant for hazing the new kid. But call it beginner’s luck because I held my own. When our final game was finished we looked towards the sky for our score cards. We looked back down and slowly met each other’s gaze upon the realization and the absolute horror of a stalemate.
I built a podium made of sticks and mud. I held a press conference for all of the birds and beasts in the wilderness. The world was getting smaller and I began to speak of sadness, not judgment. Love was the theme. The Specialist was there along with our mutual friends. Ol’ Bat was tapping her foot to a rhythm in her head. Teenybopper was feeding the ducks. A man with a ring and a woman with a chastity belt got tangled up in a booby trap and I was almost curious enough to go see if they were all right but I figured that would come in time. The Woods would probably devour me before my speech was over but it didn’t really matter anymore.
“The thing about me is that I will always believe in fairy tales even as I’m being constantly reminded that they don’t exist. Don’t you know that I’m your little princess, your loyal dog that continues to get beaten? I can love hard and fast and long and come on too strong all in the name of staking claim over something invisible to the untrained eye. When people look upon my youthful countenance, they pinch my cheeks and flatter me with meaningless compliments often reserved for toddlers and the pitied. ‘You’re so cute,’ is a common phrase uttered by those who think I don’t know how the world works.
I am your child bride and I stand for principles that crumble as soon as doors are closed. I am your bitter old woman that trusts very few. I am typical and pure and evil and joyful and a bundle of controlled rage. I live in the mouths of the forgotten and in the minds who own vast amounts of landscape…”
I was beginning to unravel into nothingness.
“Despite it all, I wish never to become so jaded and disconnected from myself and others that I fail to see any light in this life…” I coughed, failing.
I paused, noticing a flash of multicolored light that temporarily blinded me. I put a hand to my face to help shield my eyes and squinted into the distance.
“LOVE IS MOSTLY PAIN!” shouted a blurry figure dressed in black.
“What?!” I shouted back to an unresponsive audience.
I got off the stage and went searching into the darkness.
When you finally get outside of that little town that you live in and breathe different air, know this, in order to see, you must be seen. I encourage walks down dirty, snow-covered streets, intentionally wearing flip flops in the winter. Wear beautiful garments and forget your name for awhile. With vulnerability comes strength. Make the city cry; let its glitter bleed out into the pavement. Scream at the universe with fury and shaking fists: I EXIST, I EXIST, I PROMISE, I EXIST – I THINK!
If you need a quick break from screaming “I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU IDIOT” into glass bottles, take a step back and think about what that really means. Look around you and follow whatever path your feet lead you to. Dance like everyone and no one is watching. Stop behaving like a child. It’s going to be okay.
You’ll soon return to your home in that little town that you live in where a party of intellectuals will be flooding the space outside of your door with their innovative conversations. Their voices will muddle together in a strange cacophony and will instantly remind you of your own constantly running inner monologue. With voices piling on top of voices, you might actually catch a bit of truth somewhere. Your life is oh so precious and fleeting, attack it with every last breath.
I do love a good wet nose photo op! I get interviewed by the infamous Gump Tibbs! What a delight!
Originally posted on The Lankville Daily News:
It’s time for another penetrating interview with Gump Tibbs. Today, Gump interviews contributing female Sarah Samways.
GT: So, you have that little area in the paper where you are a female who contributes?
SS: Yes, I started out covering the economics/business section but it quickly grew into other things like interviewing old ladies in the middle of nowhere who would push me into empty pickle barrels. It’s been quite the rush!
GT: Absolutely fascinating! Do you often contribute?
SS: I contribute as much as possible. If I’m not eating, sleeping, or wrestling with condiments, I’m contributing. Lankville is an interesting place with lots of people begging for their stories to be told. It’s a journalistic endeavor that I’m proud to be a part of.
GT: Wait, they beg?
SS: Actually, they kind of demand it. People often see…
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Your likeness doesn’t belong to you. I like to play around with my own image from time to time, between banging my head against the proverbial wall, in the hopes that I’ll get to know myself a little better. The #selfie is the new form of self-portraiture and its potential goes beyond glamour shots of celebrity ass. Eliminating the gate between public and private, we’re all just consuming each other from afar. We’re all just singing into hairbrushes in front of a vast mirror that doesn’t exist while the occasional audience looks back at us. I suppose this sort of thing is right up my alley as discovering my own identity has always been a challenge.
I’ve never really discussed race as much as I probably should have in my writings, but I feel this has something to do with some of the displacement I’ve felt in my life. I am of that “ambiguously mixed race” where people come up to me speaking in different languages, expecting a response back that I can’t give. If I straighten my hair or if it gets curly and my skin changes tone in the summer heat, I wreck all kinds of assumptions. Some people actually get really upset when they “can’t place (me).” Others enjoy sizing me up, for them it is an intellectual smorgasbord. With an “olive complexion” and wide eyes, I look like everything and nothing all at once. As a child, I walked around with my mother and people would question the authenticity of our relationship, (i.e. the paternal genes won on physicality). This used to really bother me but I’ve come to embrace belonging to the world, even if I haven’t seen that much of yet.
But we all know that the world is getting smaller everyday! Technology connects and distances and no one knows who the fuck they are anymore and so we dream of a pastoral landscape, where freedom will reign in the trees and not in the wires. With our bodies, our pixelated selves, this is perhaps an oversimplification because it’s 2015 and technology will only become more invasive before it somehow devours itself. The hunter-gatherer days are over, but it’s a dream nonetheless.
Who am I? Who are you?
Originally posted on The Lankville Daily News:
I can keep a real clean kitchen. I can soak the tables in sudsy liquids whenever I want; I can make them sparkle pristinely. I can mop up throw up like nobody’s business. I’m a professional and everybody knows it. But with great power comes great hostility because not everyone can shine like me. They’re out to get me, see. Every obstacle that They throw at me can be easily dodged. I’m the best.
I saw a few of Them snickering around the condiments and speciality oils, right next to the napkin dispenser. I didn’t really make anything of it yet as I had an important meeting to attend about how to properly dress a coffee cup, (with a Java Jacket, of course!). A loud groan was then heard in echoing crescendos, carrying off into the hallway. I looked to my…
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It had been awhile but I decided to wander into the part of The Woods where I had once been kidnapped. I hoped to find The Specialist there, if only for a moment. He looked tired, as if he had been giving medical treatment to large groups of people in haste, he being the sole provider. I wanted to say a bunch of things all at once but none of it really made any sense so I stuck to the basics. Time was of the essence and this was all a fairy tale to begin with so beginning with false pleasantries would have been a waste of time.
“If you’re simply a conglomeration of hopes and dreams, bits and pieces of memories treasured and tattered, and I’m just another victim that needs medical attention, should I just stay out of this place altogether? If I’m just another patient that you can’t take care of or if I’m someone you’ve met before but pushed further and into stranger directions that even you couldn’t predict – Well, it’s sort of like the blind leading the blind, don’t you think?”
He was nervous now. A mutual friend lingered by, eager to capture this still life in paint and ashes.
“I am what you make me,” he sighed and then walked away.
I realized then that my knuckles were bleeding. I patched myself up and walked off into the night while my friend distracted me with tales of woe because the more I knew the less I actually learned.