on a foggy window

    He drew the petals of a flower with a closed circle of cirleques, rounded around twice, tracing his prior work. This tracing method he repeated on the rest of the flower, from the circle within the circle of cirleques, which represented simply the complex sex organs of the flower, to the proportionately jarring large stem, with two little leaflets at the left and right of the flower. The flower was facing you, facing him, just facing outwards toward the world outside the paper it was on, wanting to be viewed. It might have been a daisy, but it was probably just a flower, the generalized and compacted idea of a flower. The flower doesn’t mean sex to him, it isn’t a representation of a girl, it’s just pretty and nice to look at and fun to draw. It’s just a flower. He just wanted to draw a flower. He has no pretenses, no ulterior motives, he didn’t do it to make money. He just wanted to try to recreate something beautiful. If he put it down on paper, he was sure he wouldn’t forget this pretty thing he has seen and touched and smelled and torn apart and examined the insides of. He even tasted it once, it was mostly like grass. Luckily there was always a lot of these flowers, so he could pick a few to be his. He wondered if they had a sound, so he stuck one in his ear. It was loud and sounded just like putting a pencil in his ear, but pencils had a sound, clik clik clik, so he still wasn’t sure that was what it sounded like. Maybe it didn’t have a sound, or maybe it was a really quiet one. He wondered if he’d ever hear it. He really liked the flower though. He hoped he would grow old and remember how much he liked the flower. That’s why he drew it.



We ran for days
Through cities and towns,
Towns with graveyards bigger than they are
And cities with no time for the dead
Death only is and matters for a moment
Then it’s a return to the earth
A return to the soil
To help life return
Once more through the cycle.

We still ran
Across mountains and plains
Through highs, lows
Valleys brimming with mist
Consumed us before we did it
Covetous but yet kind enough to allow safe passage
We could not thank it but we did
It didn’t hear us.

Running yet still
We paced across a plateau
We saw for miles but only for a few feet
We didn’t care about beauty then
And neither did it about us
Time was our enemy, space our friend
But we didn’t appreciate either.

We didn’t leave without reason
Maybe we did
Maybe we were the reason now
It didn’t matter really
We still ran.

And when we reached the end
It wasn’t the end
We still kept going
We couldn’t stop.

In all the running
We only got
Closer to the start.    

When we stopped
We would stop.

So we didn’t.

Lucas Lysne is an autistic 17 year-old Idaho high school student with some vague notion of wanting to be a fiction writer (or musician, whichever starves him less). He studies all sorts of things and loves David Foster Wallace. He’s done some notable things, but, being a derridean post-structuralist, he doesn’t even want you to know this much about him, the author, so as not to taint your contextualization of his collections of words.