Tofurky

I've never quite understood how they've gotten tofu to taste like meat.

Another relentless day gone by where I've felt like a passive spectator watching as footsteps sped up, time warped, and sound muted. If you don't understand, I guess this is just another one of my peculiarities. As I see a past day in rewind, nothing is spectacular but every passing second breathes. I watch as familiar faces dart passed me, and somehow, restless, anxious, and sometimes awkward moments never expire.

I draw the blinds open and the movements pour in and illuminate as sunlight hits the dust. The people, they move fluidly, and yet stare fixedly through hollow sockets. Life there is painless, yet it shrieks for mercy as it crumbles into the far reaches of my memory. Reveling. It is a magic trick. With a flick of the wand, the thoughts appear and disappear. And with a sigh, all is lost. A broken bungee cord. Nothing left but the empty carcass of a day passed away.

-Fiona
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So you might be wondering wtf I'm blabbering about. It's elementary my dear. Ray Bradbury has again Kung-Fu Hustled his way into my reading list. As I browsed the bookstore today, his book "We'll Always Have Paris" alighted like some divine gift. I caught it with my eyes. Oh how I devoured the words, as hungrily as the lions in "The Veldt".

He paints. Like an artist, he lets different angles refract the light off his prose. He's a poet, using not verbosity and fancy frills to create imagery, but rather letting the perfect, comfortable words ebb and flow around the reader like an unimposing wind. A storyteller and a magician, his quick wit and spot-on timing create the most satisfying plotlines. Almost too effortlessly, he introduces shock-inducing twists that no other author could ever pull off. Move over Shakespeare, HE is my literary idol. I can only dream that one day my words will be as consistently exhilarating to read as they are for me to write, and I can only hope to one day have the complete grasp of the English language that allows him to express freely and honesty, the reality that only Bradbury can bring to something as unfathomable as aliens and moving illustrations.

Now if only he could solve the mystery of Tofurky, he'd be a god. Then again, in my book he's already there.