-Twelve hundred dollars and a Pearl Necklace-
He kisses her into my arms; admires my gilt, cream and gold threaded, upholstery. He loves the contrast of her skin against mine. He says so as he slides his hand up her thigh and under her satin slip of a dress. He finds something just as satin and she lets out a gasp of pleasure.
-Venetian and Satin-
Her dress whispers to the floor, intimate as old lovers, and her hips kiss the cushions. Between deep kisses, he notes the plushness. He sighs, blissful, pushing into her and her into me. Her breath comes in short gasps, each one a love letter into my silks. She holds me, shaking.
-Love and Seating-
He cups the curve of her skull, bringing her face closer to his, sharing breaths. Her skin is a blushing umber rose, petals unfolded against cream and gold. She is ripe with need, skin caressing skin until they both begin to burn. When they release, they both cry out in animalistic joy, equally ravaged by waves after waves.
-In years to come, I am a lusty reminder-
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Sunday, March 1, 2015
All of Her: Chapter One (Final Edit?)
Chapter One: Heartbroken
I know I said this wasn't running away, but I find myself running. I need to find Noah. Not 'want,' need. My feet are tattooing his name into the pavement. My heart is racing my lungs; a hideous lump is forming in my esophagus. My chest is heaving and my mind is in overdrive. I just keep thinking that if I could just get to Noah everything will be okay. He'll wake me up from this nightmare. He'll be able to to comfort me. Not that I am capable of being comforted.
I think my heart is going to explode. I am in physical pain so intense I may double over before I get to him. At the beginning curve of his apartment complex's entrance, I have to stop. I've been running for an hour and I can't breathe anymore. My shirt is soaked with sweat and sticking to my back. My hair is plastered to my face and neck.
And then, because this seems like the appropriate moment, the tears come. I stand there, on the corner, bawling like a crazy person, unable to see straight or breathe between gulping sobs.
Beyond all reason, Noah is walking his dog toward the park, which is just up the block from where I am standing. I don't even have voice enough to call out to him. As if he heard my thoughts, he looks up and sees me. He doesn't even pause; he starts running, barely waiting for Bett, his doberman, to catch up. I can't even limp to close the distance. I don't have to, however, because within a moment I am completely wrapped in his arms.
"Abra, honey, what's wrong?" he looks at me and holds me tighter. He murmurs into my hair, "Honey, please, you're scaring me. What happened?"
I can't respond. I can't catch my breath between sobs. I'm trembling violently; at any moment my body may fly to pieces. That lump building in my throat floods my mouth. Feebly, I manage to push away from Noah just enough to lean over and throw up. Reflexively, he pulls my hair back and moves to prevent Bett from eating it.
I keep heaving, despite my stomach being empty. I fear that, at any moment, I'll see my broken heart land in the puddle of vitriol at my sneakered feet. Noah holds my hair, muttering in a soothing way. I can't hear him over the pounding of my heart in my head.
After what feels like an eternity, I stop heaving. Straightening up, I take the first deep breath I've had since I started running. I look at Noah, concern etched into his black eyebrows and filling up his blue eyes with shadows. Absently, I notice that his glasses are smudged from where he was holding me.
"He's in love with her." I say, after several deep breaths.
"Who is in love with whom?"
"David and Alice." I choke out, my stomach tightening in warning. He doesn't say anything, just gathers me up in his arms and holds me. We stand there for a little bit, my face streaked with tears and Bett looking at us quizzically. Without knowing how it happened, we are walking back to his apartment. Once inside, I sit, cross-legged, on his 1970's style, burgundy, shag carpet. Bett rests her head in my lap and I stroke her ears, distractedly.
In the kitchen I can hear Noah making tea. This is how he deals with a crisis. Whether its a break-up, a bad grade in a test; it doesn't matter. Tea holds all the answers. He comes out of the kitchen, two steaming mugs of, what smells like, Earl Grey and a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips hanging from his teeth.
He sets one mug on a black and white coaster in front of me before he takes the bag of chocolate chips out of his mouth.
"I'm out of any other chocolate," he says, apologetically. "I've got some left overs if you are hungry. Though I'm sure your stomach is still a mess."
He pushes my tea closer to me. I take a sip, but am not really enjoying it like I normally would. I feel so out of sorts.
"Do you want to talk?" he asks, his voice cautious.
Do I want to talk about this? Can I? Do words have any meaning in a situation like this?
"He says he is in love with her. I've been tossed to the side. What more is there to say?"
Noah says nothing, simply placing his hand on mine.
No Parade
When I was twelve I met a boy. This boy was the most gorgeous, most intelligent, most wonderful boy I had ever met. It was obvious that I would fall for him. I was an awkward girl, not what anyone would consider pretty, at least in my own opinion. He was the first boy to say I was pretty. And I loved him.
Ten years passed, finding me sitting in the rectory of the church. I was about to marry the man of my dreams. A boy I loved since I was twelve. A boy I longed for with everything I had for so long I had nothing left to give. That beautiful, intelligent, wonderful boy leaves me waiting in the rectory. He leaves me waiting before the priest and God. He leaves me in my white dress and tiny white veil, my cream-colored roses and sprigs of baby's breath wilting.
He left because he had fallen in love with Alice. My childhood best friend. And, behind my back as I planned my wedding and my beautiful life with him, he planned a beautiful life with her. The most terrible of terrible things is I should've known, I should've seen it coming. How did I not notice how often they whispered to each other. Or how they sometimes gazed at one another? But I loved two beautiful stars in orbit around my sun.
I didn't know that I was the star orbiting their sunlight.
I am a fool.
I was humiliated. The church took pity on me and gave back the money I spent to have the ceremony there. The caterer was not so generous. I did get to keep all sixteen pounds of chicken and five pounds of cake. Isn't that sad though?
All of my calls were forwarded to voicemail. I must've left a dozen messages. They ranged in tone from completely calm to barely coherent sobs. Finally he agreed to meet me on the beach. How funny is it that its the spot where he proposed three years ago?
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, his hair disheveled from the wind. He looks so perfect. I love him. I hate him.
"I want you to say you love me and you're going to marry me. I can forgive all this. I can." I tried to sound even-keeled. To sound like this is all a misunderstanding and he has never once faltered.
"I can't do that." he said.
"Why?" I don't cry. I want to.
"I told you once that I loved Alice." he said. Cut to the quick, I glared at him.
"Loving someone and being in love with someone are two different things, David. You never said you were in love with her."
"I was in love with her. I'm still in love with all of her."
That fateful sentence. Those jarring 25 letters.
As I ran to Noah's, I kept seeing his face; that face I have memorized longingly for the past ten years. I kept hearing him say those eight words, like some nightmarish lullaby.
He didn't even hesitate. Did he ever love me? Was I anything to him?
Nothing else matters
Noah clears his throat, jarring me out of my memories.
"What will you do now?" he asks. To be honest, I have no idea. Blow something up? Binge drink margaritas until I bust from alcohol poisoning? I should think a minute before I do something rash.
"Listen to a bunch of sad break-up songs and commiserate with a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream? I really don't know what else to do. I feel like I lost a limb. Something is missing."
He squeezes my hand in sympathy. I know he would fix it if he could. But we both know he can't fix this one. Not even with his dry wit, Earl Grey tea and all the ice cream in the world.
"Do you want to stay the night here?" He is searching my face for any sign that I'll fly off the handle and kill someone. Or myself. He doesn't need to worry, yet.
"No, love. Thank you. I think I'm going to go home. I want a shower and some alone time. Do you care to drive me back to my car?"
The short ride back to my car is quiet. The only sounds are air rushing through the rolled down windows and Bett's happy panting as she sticks her head out. Noah gives me one last hug, kisses my cheek and drives off. I stare at the blurred line of the horizon for what feels like eternity. Its dark, barely a sliver of moon in the sky.
I'm going to be alone, I realize. Perhaps I should've stayed with Noah. Before I can think about it too much I find myself driving back to my apartment.
When I get there, David has already been there getting some of his things. A note taped to the fridge says he'll be back to finish packing up. It says he's sorry, but he can't love me with only half of his heart.
I sigh, heavily. I am too tired to cry now. Kicking off my shoes, I trudge into the bedroom. Some of the drawers are still open and the place looks like a tornado went through. In his hurry, he has left a few t-shirts, boxers and two pairs of tennis shoes. I pad around the room picking up miscellaneous items he has tossed to the floor.
While doing this I spy the shirt he was wearing earlier. I can't help myself. I pick it up, press it to my face and find tears rolling down my already puffy face.
How can I live without him? How can I even begin to start over? I have devoted the past ten years of my life to this man. I've given him everything. My heart, my life, my virginity. How could it have all gone so wrong? I sink to the floor, still clutching his shirt to my tear soaked face. I don't care that my mascara is running and that I have snot dripping from my bright, red, nose. I don't care that he may come in and see me falling completely apart. I don't have the strength to lie to him about it.
Somehow I muster the strength to stand and put his dirty clothes in the washing machine. I go into the living room and turn on the CD player. Unfortunately, every song depresses me further. I go back to my room and stare at the queen sized bed. It seems so much bigger now that I'll be sleeping alone.
Part of me wishes David would walk in and see the mess I am. I'd tell him that I'll never be over him. I could never possibly get over him, no matter how hard I tried. I refuse to be happy for him either. Not for him and most certainly not for Alice. Even if they are happy together.
I spend my night on the couch, trying to find some semblance of sanity to cling to. I try pulling myself together. And I fail at it; miserably. I don't really sleep. I drift, but I do not dream. I just sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my cheek resting on one knee.
Things have to get better eventually. Right?
I know I said this wasn't running away, but I find myself running. I need to find Noah. Not 'want,' need. My feet are tattooing his name into the pavement. My heart is racing my lungs; a hideous lump is forming in my esophagus. My chest is heaving and my mind is in overdrive. I just keep thinking that if I could just get to Noah everything will be okay. He'll wake me up from this nightmare. He'll be able to to comfort me. Not that I am capable of being comforted.
I think my heart is going to explode. I am in physical pain so intense I may double over before I get to him. At the beginning curve of his apartment complex's entrance, I have to stop. I've been running for an hour and I can't breathe anymore. My shirt is soaked with sweat and sticking to my back. My hair is plastered to my face and neck.
And then, because this seems like the appropriate moment, the tears come. I stand there, on the corner, bawling like a crazy person, unable to see straight or breathe between gulping sobs.
Beyond all reason, Noah is walking his dog toward the park, which is just up the block from where I am standing. I don't even have voice enough to call out to him. As if he heard my thoughts, he looks up and sees me. He doesn't even pause; he starts running, barely waiting for Bett, his doberman, to catch up. I can't even limp to close the distance. I don't have to, however, because within a moment I am completely wrapped in his arms.
"Abra, honey, what's wrong?" he looks at me and holds me tighter. He murmurs into my hair, "Honey, please, you're scaring me. What happened?"
I can't respond. I can't catch my breath between sobs. I'm trembling violently; at any moment my body may fly to pieces. That lump building in my throat floods my mouth. Feebly, I manage to push away from Noah just enough to lean over and throw up. Reflexively, he pulls my hair back and moves to prevent Bett from eating it.
I keep heaving, despite my stomach being empty. I fear that, at any moment, I'll see my broken heart land in the puddle of vitriol at my sneakered feet. Noah holds my hair, muttering in a soothing way. I can't hear him over the pounding of my heart in my head.
After what feels like an eternity, I stop heaving. Straightening up, I take the first deep breath I've had since I started running. I look at Noah, concern etched into his black eyebrows and filling up his blue eyes with shadows. Absently, I notice that his glasses are smudged from where he was holding me.
"He's in love with her." I say, after several deep breaths.
"Who is in love with whom?"
"David and Alice." I choke out, my stomach tightening in warning. He doesn't say anything, just gathers me up in his arms and holds me. We stand there for a little bit, my face streaked with tears and Bett looking at us quizzically. Without knowing how it happened, we are walking back to his apartment. Once inside, I sit, cross-legged, on his 1970's style, burgundy, shag carpet. Bett rests her head in my lap and I stroke her ears, distractedly.
In the kitchen I can hear Noah making tea. This is how he deals with a crisis. Whether its a break-up, a bad grade in a test; it doesn't matter. Tea holds all the answers. He comes out of the kitchen, two steaming mugs of, what smells like, Earl Grey and a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips hanging from his teeth.
He sets one mug on a black and white coaster in front of me before he takes the bag of chocolate chips out of his mouth.
"I'm out of any other chocolate," he says, apologetically. "I've got some left overs if you are hungry. Though I'm sure your stomach is still a mess."
He pushes my tea closer to me. I take a sip, but am not really enjoying it like I normally would. I feel so out of sorts.
"Do you want to talk?" he asks, his voice cautious.
Do I want to talk about this? Can I? Do words have any meaning in a situation like this?
"He says he is in love with her. I've been tossed to the side. What more is there to say?"
Noah says nothing, simply placing his hand on mine.
No Parade
When I was twelve I met a boy. This boy was the most gorgeous, most intelligent, most wonderful boy I had ever met. It was obvious that I would fall for him. I was an awkward girl, not what anyone would consider pretty, at least in my own opinion. He was the first boy to say I was pretty. And I loved him.
Ten years passed, finding me sitting in the rectory of the church. I was about to marry the man of my dreams. A boy I loved since I was twelve. A boy I longed for with everything I had for so long I had nothing left to give. That beautiful, intelligent, wonderful boy leaves me waiting in the rectory. He leaves me waiting before the priest and God. He leaves me in my white dress and tiny white veil, my cream-colored roses and sprigs of baby's breath wilting.
He left because he had fallen in love with Alice. My childhood best friend. And, behind my back as I planned my wedding and my beautiful life with him, he planned a beautiful life with her. The most terrible of terrible things is I should've known, I should've seen it coming. How did I not notice how often they whispered to each other. Or how they sometimes gazed at one another? But I loved two beautiful stars in orbit around my sun.
I didn't know that I was the star orbiting their sunlight.
I am a fool.
I was humiliated. The church took pity on me and gave back the money I spent to have the ceremony there. The caterer was not so generous. I did get to keep all sixteen pounds of chicken and five pounds of cake. Isn't that sad though?
All of my calls were forwarded to voicemail. I must've left a dozen messages. They ranged in tone from completely calm to barely coherent sobs. Finally he agreed to meet me on the beach. How funny is it that its the spot where he proposed three years ago?
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, his hair disheveled from the wind. He looks so perfect. I love him. I hate him.
"I want you to say you love me and you're going to marry me. I can forgive all this. I can." I tried to sound even-keeled. To sound like this is all a misunderstanding and he has never once faltered.
"I can't do that." he said.
"Why?" I don't cry. I want to.
"I told you once that I loved Alice." he said. Cut to the quick, I glared at him.
"Loving someone and being in love with someone are two different things, David. You never said you were in love with her."
"I was in love with her. I'm still in love with all of her."
That fateful sentence. Those jarring 25 letters.
As I ran to Noah's, I kept seeing his face; that face I have memorized longingly for the past ten years. I kept hearing him say those eight words, like some nightmarish lullaby.
He didn't even hesitate. Did he ever love me? Was I anything to him?
Nothing else matters
Noah clears his throat, jarring me out of my memories.
"What will you do now?" he asks. To be honest, I have no idea. Blow something up? Binge drink margaritas until I bust from alcohol poisoning? I should think a minute before I do something rash.
"Listen to a bunch of sad break-up songs and commiserate with a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream? I really don't know what else to do. I feel like I lost a limb. Something is missing."
He squeezes my hand in sympathy. I know he would fix it if he could. But we both know he can't fix this one. Not even with his dry wit, Earl Grey tea and all the ice cream in the world.
"Do you want to stay the night here?" He is searching my face for any sign that I'll fly off the handle and kill someone. Or myself. He doesn't need to worry, yet.
"No, love. Thank you. I think I'm going to go home. I want a shower and some alone time. Do you care to drive me back to my car?"
The short ride back to my car is quiet. The only sounds are air rushing through the rolled down windows and Bett's happy panting as she sticks her head out. Noah gives me one last hug, kisses my cheek and drives off. I stare at the blurred line of the horizon for what feels like eternity. Its dark, barely a sliver of moon in the sky.
I'm going to be alone, I realize. Perhaps I should've stayed with Noah. Before I can think about it too much I find myself driving back to my apartment.
When I get there, David has already been there getting some of his things. A note taped to the fridge says he'll be back to finish packing up. It says he's sorry, but he can't love me with only half of his heart.
I sigh, heavily. I am too tired to cry now. Kicking off my shoes, I trudge into the bedroom. Some of the drawers are still open and the place looks like a tornado went through. In his hurry, he has left a few t-shirts, boxers and two pairs of tennis shoes. I pad around the room picking up miscellaneous items he has tossed to the floor.
While doing this I spy the shirt he was wearing earlier. I can't help myself. I pick it up, press it to my face and find tears rolling down my already puffy face.
How can I live without him? How can I even begin to start over? I have devoted the past ten years of my life to this man. I've given him everything. My heart, my life, my virginity. How could it have all gone so wrong? I sink to the floor, still clutching his shirt to my tear soaked face. I don't care that my mascara is running and that I have snot dripping from my bright, red, nose. I don't care that he may come in and see me falling completely apart. I don't have the strength to lie to him about it.
Somehow I muster the strength to stand and put his dirty clothes in the washing machine. I go into the living room and turn on the CD player. Unfortunately, every song depresses me further. I go back to my room and stare at the queen sized bed. It seems so much bigger now that I'll be sleeping alone.
Part of me wishes David would walk in and see the mess I am. I'd tell him that I'll never be over him. I could never possibly get over him, no matter how hard I tried. I refuse to be happy for him either. Not for him and most certainly not for Alice. Even if they are happy together.
I spend my night on the couch, trying to find some semblance of sanity to cling to. I try pulling myself together. And I fail at it; miserably. I don't really sleep. I drift, but I do not dream. I just sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my cheek resting on one knee.
Things have to get better eventually. Right?
Sunday, February 22, 2015
All of Her: Prologue (Final Edit)
Prologue: He doesn't Love You.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says. Not that it matters. He keeps talking; as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. I think I might be sick.
His words are echoing in my head. I am stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, drumming erratically against my rib-cage. I've gone mad. I'm standing here, on my own two hands, going crazy. I'm shaking.
I know he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know its the truth. Being a glutton for punishment, and already drunk with pain, I look anyway. Why not? She's smiling; lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I be so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can easily imagine them. Entangled, wrapped in pink sheets, their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I feel so pathetic. I try to smile, as if everything is okay, but it wobbles with the weight of the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I need to get drunk. Is it normal for my chest to hurt this badly? Its like I've been punched. My whole body aches, like I have the flu. Its all just so ridiculous. This isn't fair. None of this is fair! Of course it isn't, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is and is not fair.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright'?" I ask, turning back toward him and shrugging off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely fucking peachy. Its not like the love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. No, I'm not 'alright!' I feel like I'm going crazy right now! I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I am sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I think I might vomit. I'm going to scream, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She is looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love. I want to slap the sunlight off her cheeks.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway. You might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I want to yell at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I wish I could smack some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. There they go; their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that's my broken-hearted imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, idiot that I am, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling; that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn. Why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and more than a little raw. Its like my wounds just got a vigourous scrub.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course. Even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm just standing here. Caught up in my foolish daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I'm supposed to. If she were my ugly step-sister, she'd cut off her nose to spite her face and I'd win him back with perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and all will be right with the world.
I'm rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. This isn't running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says. Not that it matters. He keeps talking; as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. I think I might be sick.
His words are echoing in my head. I am stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, drumming erratically against my rib-cage. I've gone mad. I'm standing here, on my own two hands, going crazy. I'm shaking.
I know he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know its the truth. Being a glutton for punishment, and already drunk with pain, I look anyway. Why not? She's smiling; lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I be so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can easily imagine them. Entangled, wrapped in pink sheets, their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I feel so pathetic. I try to smile, as if everything is okay, but it wobbles with the weight of the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I need to get drunk. Is it normal for my chest to hurt this badly? Its like I've been punched. My whole body aches, like I have the flu. Its all just so ridiculous. This isn't fair. None of this is fair! Of course it isn't, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is and is not fair.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright'?" I ask, turning back toward him and shrugging off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely fucking peachy. Its not like the love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. No, I'm not 'alright!' I feel like I'm going crazy right now! I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I am sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I think I might vomit. I'm going to scream, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She is looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love. I want to slap the sunlight off her cheeks.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway. You might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I want to yell at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I wish I could smack some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. There they go; their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that's my broken-hearted imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, idiot that I am, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling; that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn. Why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and more than a little raw. Its like my wounds just got a vigourous scrub.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course. Even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm just standing here. Caught up in my foolish daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I'm supposed to. If she were my ugly step-sister, she'd cut off her nose to spite her face and I'd win him back with perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and all will be right with the world.
I'm rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. This isn't running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Words
hurt wasting hate breathless
heart time kiss screaming
pain wishing embrace dreamed
longing stars crying lost
waiting friend resolve alone
hoping love never forgotten.
heart time kiss screaming
pain wishing embrace dreamed
longing stars crying lost
waiting friend resolve alone
hoping love never forgotten.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
The Balloon Letters: Ibrahim
"My father calls me 'youngest son.' He says it with a tone of disappointment, a tinge of shame. His deep voice practically hums with his dislike of me. He won't look me in the eyes and, for the past five years, he won't say my name.
"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.
"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."
Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.
He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.
Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.
He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.
He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.
"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.
"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."
Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.
He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.
Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.
He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.
He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
The Dream
They always started the same way.
She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."
He didn't know what true fear was.
While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.
The dream always started this way.
Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.
It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."
It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.
"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."
This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.
Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.
This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.
She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.
The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.
She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?
From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.
She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.
The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.
Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.
The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.
Her mother looks at her, smiling.
"Look how pretty you are."
She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."
He didn't know what true fear was.
While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.
The dream always started this way.
Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.
It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."
It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.
"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."
This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.
Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.
This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.
She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.
The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.
She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?
From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.
She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.
The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.
Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.
The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.
Her mother looks at her, smiling.
"Look how pretty you are."
Monday, August 25, 2014
Bubbles
The girls giggled at the parade of butterflies and bubbles.
He worked magic just for them, their eyes glowing with joy.
He worked magic just for them, their eyes glowing with joy.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Shock
He kissed her; quick as lightning and just as shocking.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Scarecrow
She was surprised to find, when she kissed the scarecrow prince, that she loved him.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The First Time.
It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?
His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.
I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.
"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.
"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.
"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.
His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.
His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.
I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.
"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.
"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.
"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.
His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Dear Santa,
Dear Santa,
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.
When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.
He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.
Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.
Sincerely,
Anna.
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.
When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.
He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.
Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.
Sincerely,
Anna.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
The Lie
"Excuse me," said a wiry man, his arms full of parcels in festive prints.
"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.
The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.
"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.
"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.
"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.
"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."
"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.
The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.
"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.
"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.
"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.
"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."
Monday, August 4, 2014
Scarlett
It was her lipstick. It wasn't subtle, much like the wearer. It was bright and loud, proclaiming just as much as her words. When she walked in the room everyone stared, locked on her lips as she passed.
"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.
"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.
She was dressed for battle.
The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.
"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?
He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.
It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.
"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.
"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.
She was dressed for battle.
The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.
"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?
He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.
It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Sisters
Taking a cue from Jeremy, I put on my best smile.
This is the most uncomfortable I think I've ever been. Its bad enough that I forgot my deodorant and my hair looks like a rat's residence. But seeing him like this; his arm around her waist and his lips precariously close to her glittering earlobe, could kill me.
I'm over-dramatic, but I can't help the lump growing in my throat. It tastes like regret and vomit.
"You look lovely, Annie." he says. He smiles, again. Did his hand tighten around her waist? Or is that my imagination?
"Thank you." I say, though I accuse him of lying. In the privacy of my head. "You look like you are doing well."
"Well, Pam and I just got married," he says, nonchalantly. As if I hadn't noticed the sterling silver band on his finger the moment he walked in. "We're getting ready to close on our first house, so we're pretty excited."
"Congratulations!" I say, congratulating myself for sounding halfway sincere.
We chit-chat for what feels like, an uncomfortably, long time. I leave them with a chipper good-night before heading to the roof to smoke.
I puff thoughtfully, gazing off and into the night sky. A shooting star streaks through the set patterns. Rearranging more than the cloud patterns.
"Those things will kill you, you know." says a voice. Startled, I jump to my feet and drop my cigarette.
"Sorry." he says, sheepishly. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"What the fuck did you think would happen?" I shout, both embarrassed and scared. Who is this guy?
"I'm Eli." he says, as if he heard my thought waves. He stretches out a hand to shake, looking sufficiently apologetic.
"Annie." I say, taking his hand in mine. "What are you doing on the roof?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"I needed a break from the meet and greet session downstairs."
"Same. Can I bum one of those from you?" he gestures at the pack I dropped and I retrieve one for him.
We sit in semi-comfortable silence for a few minutes before we hear the gymnasium doors open below us. Jenny traipses through, tilting drunkenly onto the football field. Her red hair is plastered to her face and neck, a beer in her hand.
"What's Jenny doing?" I wonder, out loud.
"Don't know." Eli shrugs.
"I better go get her. The last thing she needs is to fall and hurt herself." I push myself to a standing position and dust myself off. Eli also stands and escorts me to the staircase. I give him my pack of cigarettes. He smiles and pretends to tip an invisible hat to me.
Jenny dances in lopsided circles across the dewy grass. She has her shoes off, like always.
"Sis, let's go home." I say, picking up her debris. "You've had enough."
"I've not." she replies. She doesn't even look at me, her eyes locked on something only she sees.
"C'mon, Jen. Its getting chilly."
This is the most uncomfortable I think I've ever been. Its bad enough that I forgot my deodorant and my hair looks like a rat's residence. But seeing him like this; his arm around her waist and his lips precariously close to her glittering earlobe, could kill me.
I'm over-dramatic, but I can't help the lump growing in my throat. It tastes like regret and vomit.
"You look lovely, Annie." he says. He smiles, again. Did his hand tighten around her waist? Or is that my imagination?
"Thank you." I say, though I accuse him of lying. In the privacy of my head. "You look like you are doing well."
"Well, Pam and I just got married," he says, nonchalantly. As if I hadn't noticed the sterling silver band on his finger the moment he walked in. "We're getting ready to close on our first house, so we're pretty excited."
"Congratulations!" I say, congratulating myself for sounding halfway sincere.
We chit-chat for what feels like, an uncomfortably, long time. I leave them with a chipper good-night before heading to the roof to smoke.
I puff thoughtfully, gazing off and into the night sky. A shooting star streaks through the set patterns. Rearranging more than the cloud patterns.
"Those things will kill you, you know." says a voice. Startled, I jump to my feet and drop my cigarette.
"Sorry." he says, sheepishly. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"What the fuck did you think would happen?" I shout, both embarrassed and scared. Who is this guy?
"I'm Eli." he says, as if he heard my thought waves. He stretches out a hand to shake, looking sufficiently apologetic.
"Annie." I say, taking his hand in mine. "What are you doing on the roof?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"I needed a break from the meet and greet session downstairs."
"Same. Can I bum one of those from you?" he gestures at the pack I dropped and I retrieve one for him.
We sit in semi-comfortable silence for a few minutes before we hear the gymnasium doors open below us. Jenny traipses through, tilting drunkenly onto the football field. Her red hair is plastered to her face and neck, a beer in her hand.
"What's Jenny doing?" I wonder, out loud.
"Don't know." Eli shrugs.
"I better go get her. The last thing she needs is to fall and hurt herself." I push myself to a standing position and dust myself off. Eli also stands and escorts me to the staircase. I give him my pack of cigarettes. He smiles and pretends to tip an invisible hat to me.
Jenny dances in lopsided circles across the dewy grass. She has her shoes off, like always.
"Sis, let's go home." I say, picking up her debris. "You've had enough."
"I've not." she replies. She doesn't even look at me, her eyes locked on something only she sees.
"C'mon, Jen. Its getting chilly."
Thursday, July 31, 2014
All of Her: Prologue (Alternate Version)
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
All of Her: Prologue (Edit #?)
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.
His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.
Now I'm just rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.
His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?
Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?
She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?
The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.
How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?
"I'm still in love with all of her."
"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.
"I didn't say anything."
I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.
I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.
"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The gall. The absolute gall.
"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."
Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.
"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.
She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.
"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."
I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.
I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?
I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.
The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.
Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?
Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.
Now I'm just rambling.
"I'm still in love with all of her."
Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.
He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Beautiful Merry Oak (fragment)
Her mother called her "Oak." She believed in the power of names and held that when her daughter grew up she would be strong and unbent by the weight of time. She called her "Beautiful" because she had never been called that by her own mother and the taste of it was like honey on her tongue. She called her "Merry" so that she would always smile, despite the pain life often brings.
She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.
Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.
Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.
"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."
To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.
At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.
"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.
They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.
Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."
She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.
Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.
Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.
"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."
To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.
At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.
"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.
They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.
Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.
"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."
Saturday, June 28, 2014
The Magic Man: Part I
Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake and the morning will no longer be.
Soft, sweet, softly. They'll hear your breathing, but not your heart beating.
Soon we will be swept up in the dark of night, candy colored lights to guide the way home.
Celeste awoke in a cold sweat. Her thin shift clung to her drenched and shivering body. The fire in her tiny cabin had gone out and only the faintest glow came from the coals. Tugging on the tattered quilt, she burrowed into the warmth of her bed and tried to block out the sound of the snow falling.
It wasn't that the sound bothered her, but snow reminded her that Poppa was gone and Momma was sick with the fever. It also made her feel nervous; as if there were a thousand eyes watching her every move. If she closed her eyes tight enough, it was summer time and Poppa was out in the fields. Momma would be in the kitchen, the windows flung wide and the whole place smelling of bread and lavender. William, the butcher's youngest son, would be playing on the floor with the kittens and Susan, her youngest sister, would be banging her wooden spoon against the table legs.
"Celeste," moaned her mother. Her voice seemed to echo from beneath the covers, growing louder against the well of her ears.
"Yes, Momma?" she whispered, curling into herself. She imagined her ribs growing outward to cage her within them. The smaller she was, the less chance of being found by whatever it was that seemed to be haunting her.
"The fire," her mother's voice sounded weak now. "its out."
"Yes, Momma." shivering, she eased out from under the covers. She did not look out the window as she tip-toed to the pile of dry wood. If she looked out she was sure she would see the Magic Man from her nightmares.
Squatting, she gathered the smallest sticks first. If she could get those going, with what little flame was left, then she would put on the thicker logs. Poppa had taught her well. Without fully rising, she moved toward the fireplace.
Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake, my prisoner you'll be.
She jumped, falling backwards, scattering a few coals and dropping her sticks. His eyes were glowing in the pit of the fireplace, shining like two moons in a sea of fire. A small scream pressed free of her lips and the wind rattled the windows so that the whole room was shaking.
She did not have to look out the window to see him. She knew he was there. His long black cape flapping furiously in the bitter winter wind, his long black hair plaited down his back and his black hat dusted white by the snow. She did not have to look out the window, but she was drawn to it. Her eyes met his auburn coloured ones and his smile, sardonic and mirthful, gleamed in the faint light of the coals.
Soft, sweet, softly. Mustn't let momma hear you leaving.
Gingerly, she lifted the latch on the door and stepped out into the swirling white world. She did not feel the bite of the snow against her bare feet or the sting of the wind as it whipped against her reddening cheeks. All she saw was his face and the edge of summer rising behind his black cape.
Soft, sweet, softly. They'll hear your breathing, but not your heart beating.
Soon we will be swept up in the dark of night, candy colored lights to guide the way home.
Celeste awoke in a cold sweat. Her thin shift clung to her drenched and shivering body. The fire in her tiny cabin had gone out and only the faintest glow came from the coals. Tugging on the tattered quilt, she burrowed into the warmth of her bed and tried to block out the sound of the snow falling.
It wasn't that the sound bothered her, but snow reminded her that Poppa was gone and Momma was sick with the fever. It also made her feel nervous; as if there were a thousand eyes watching her every move. If she closed her eyes tight enough, it was summer time and Poppa was out in the fields. Momma would be in the kitchen, the windows flung wide and the whole place smelling of bread and lavender. William, the butcher's youngest son, would be playing on the floor with the kittens and Susan, her youngest sister, would be banging her wooden spoon against the table legs.
"Celeste," moaned her mother. Her voice seemed to echo from beneath the covers, growing louder against the well of her ears.
"Yes, Momma?" she whispered, curling into herself. She imagined her ribs growing outward to cage her within them. The smaller she was, the less chance of being found by whatever it was that seemed to be haunting her.
"The fire," her mother's voice sounded weak now. "its out."
"Yes, Momma." shivering, she eased out from under the covers. She did not look out the window as she tip-toed to the pile of dry wood. If she looked out she was sure she would see the Magic Man from her nightmares.
Squatting, she gathered the smallest sticks first. If she could get those going, with what little flame was left, then she would put on the thicker logs. Poppa had taught her well. Without fully rising, she moved toward the fireplace.
Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake, my prisoner you'll be.
She jumped, falling backwards, scattering a few coals and dropping her sticks. His eyes were glowing in the pit of the fireplace, shining like two moons in a sea of fire. A small scream pressed free of her lips and the wind rattled the windows so that the whole room was shaking.
She did not have to look out the window to see him. She knew he was there. His long black cape flapping furiously in the bitter winter wind, his long black hair plaited down his back and his black hat dusted white by the snow. She did not have to look out the window, but she was drawn to it. Her eyes met his auburn coloured ones and his smile, sardonic and mirthful, gleamed in the faint light of the coals.
Soft, sweet, softly. Mustn't let momma hear you leaving.
Gingerly, she lifted the latch on the door and stepped out into the swirling white world. She did not feel the bite of the snow against her bare feet or the sting of the wind as it whipped against her reddening cheeks. All she saw was his face and the edge of summer rising behind his black cape.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
The Goddess of Storms
The ocean rose, like a salty tongue, to lick the shoreline. The sky was bleached alabaster white, marbled with gray clouds that threatened more than rain. The voice of thunder rumbled as though it came from below one's feet. The beach seemed to be turned to miles of salt, white against the white of the sky against the blanched waves.
It was a perfect day for a battle.
The Mer-king reared up from the depths, seaweed woven into his crown, his scepter glowing a hot red. He roared in challenge and shook his fist at the bleached sky.
As if in response, the clouds darkened and opened to reveal a staircase of swirling gold. Stepping down from the sky, the Goddess, radiant in all her prismatic splendor, looked about, as if to ask who might dare to disturb her stormy preparations.
Spying the Mer-king, flanked on either side by a battalion of mer-men, she laughed. The sound was like the tinkling of rain against window panes, like sunlight jumping off of water. Unamused, the Mer-king raised a haughty salute and heaved a jagged breath. It was all a game. Petty disruptions in prelude to the ultimate conquest; her heart.
Every autumn, before the winter winds twined their icy fingers about his throat, he and the Goddess danced about one another. They raged at one another, fiercer combatants never before seen. The storms they created ravaged continents, broke open the earth, drowned the cities.
And, in the calm after they had battled to the brink of death, he would woo her. Pleading prettily that she join him below the lightning shattered waves. She would laugh, that beautiful musical laugh, and she would kiss him before she would disappear in the rain drenched sky.
This time he was determined. Determined that the destiny he was promised by the Sea Witch would be his. That he would be crowned the God of Sea and Sky, consort to the Goddess of Storms.
This time, when he took her in his embrace, she would find herself within the sea's embrace as well. She would preside over sparkling pearl palaces, gardens of brightly coloured plants glowing in the depths and his heart.
It was a perfect day for a battle.
The Mer-king reared up from the depths, seaweed woven into his crown, his scepter glowing a hot red. He roared in challenge and shook his fist at the bleached sky.
As if in response, the clouds darkened and opened to reveal a staircase of swirling gold. Stepping down from the sky, the Goddess, radiant in all her prismatic splendor, looked about, as if to ask who might dare to disturb her stormy preparations.
Spying the Mer-king, flanked on either side by a battalion of mer-men, she laughed. The sound was like the tinkling of rain against window panes, like sunlight jumping off of water. Unamused, the Mer-king raised a haughty salute and heaved a jagged breath. It was all a game. Petty disruptions in prelude to the ultimate conquest; her heart.
Every autumn, before the winter winds twined their icy fingers about his throat, he and the Goddess danced about one another. They raged at one another, fiercer combatants never before seen. The storms they created ravaged continents, broke open the earth, drowned the cities.
And, in the calm after they had battled to the brink of death, he would woo her. Pleading prettily that she join him below the lightning shattered waves. She would laugh, that beautiful musical laugh, and she would kiss him before she would disappear in the rain drenched sky.
This time he was determined. Determined that the destiny he was promised by the Sea Witch would be his. That he would be crowned the God of Sea and Sky, consort to the Goddess of Storms.
This time, when he took her in his embrace, she would find herself within the sea's embrace as well. She would preside over sparkling pearl palaces, gardens of brightly coloured plants glowing in the depths and his heart.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Writing Exercise: The Statue of Liberty
Phil stood on Ellis Island taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty. It was a fairly
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.
"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.
"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.
"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.
"Wondering if you would like,"
"Yes, if you would like to,"
"Join us for a tour!"
They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.
"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.
"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.
"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.
"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.
"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.
Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.
"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.
"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.
"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.
"Hey!" he cried, struggling.
From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.
Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.
"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.
Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.
"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.
"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.
"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.
"Wondering if you would like,"
"Yes, if you would like to,"
"Join us for a tour!"
They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.
"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.
"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.
"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.
"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.
"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.
Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.
"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.
"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.
"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.
"Hey!" he cried, struggling.
From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.
Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.
"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.
Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)