Nov 25

Cruel

This is a bit of a dark story. If you don't want to read it, I don't mind. Thank you! 
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I watch his mouth. I watch it twist and sneer, curl and spit, arching around words like knives, like the pierce of a bullet to the chest. I watch him catch the edge of a heart in his hands and dig his nails in, those long, elegant, gorgeous fingers tearing in with the kind of cruelty only men like him can muster. The kind of cruelty that comes with dragons, with lions. Ripping and clawing and drawing gashes across unblemished skin, reveling in the marks, in the claiming. 

    I watch him. And I wait. I wait to tear his walls down. I sit in the shadows as he plays and pushes and kills and taunts. Then, I let him put his hands on my hips and his lips on mine and his heart in my palms. 

    I love letting him. I hate it, too. 

Nov 23

Terrified

I'm terrified of the dark. I can tell you that for a fact. It's a deep seated root of my trauma, from fighting in a war I never should have fought in, from watching people I loved fall around me, my memory still fresh of that feeling, that ache. It was always at night. No one attacks during the day. If you're a war leader worth your salt, you know. It's why I almost kiss the ground every time I see the sunlight come through my windows, the waft of free-falling sun-beam fuzz a familiar sight. 
It's horrid, I can tell you that. I can never get my feet out from under me when I end up in a dark room, can never manage to get any air, to just calm down and breathe, and tonight is no different, the feeling of my lungs crushing behind my chest, inky blackness blooming all around my eyes, a dreaded, but no less suprising, weight. 

Nov 23

Broken-A companion to Pieces

This one's for you, Treblemaker. I basically made it as an explanation for why the main character's mother died. You can take it the way you want to, but I think it has a couple of clues. Tell me how it is! I hope it isn't too awful. 
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Long sips of red wine
held between elegant fingers 
The scent of blood lingers 
A flashing warning sign
Blue eyes, black hair
Terrified swallows
My chest hollows
Breath wafting in the air
Toes curl, lights dim
Sweat glistens
The silence listens
A goblet filled up silver to the brim
A gasp of breath
My body shakes
One last glimpse of past mistakes
It looms, death
I bring the glass to my lips
They round the edge in a featherlight kiss
For a moment, all is bliss
Then death's hands clutch my hips
My lifeline snaps
Eyes roll back
Legs go slack
As she watches our world collapse 
 
Nov 21

Friendship


To me, women are the calm before the storm, the moment of peace before the whirlwind hits; a silence; a clash of sound and then, a celebration. They are the beginning, the middle, and the end, and they rise above the tide, beautiful and merciless and so captivating, my breath is stolen with their smiles. I am utterly enthralled with women, for what they stand for, and I welcome the capture they have on my heart. 

Men, however, are the storm. A brand of chaos, controlled and yet uncontrolled, the edge of a wicked smile and the sinful shift of muscle beneath bone. To be held in their embrace is to be consumed, as if by fire, of the rage of their hearts. I will never understand them, and that, in and of itself, is an irresistable driving force of my desire to know and yet not, holding me in my place. Men are terrifying, and they are beautiful. 
Nov 20

Oliver


THE LIGHTS IN the old school gymnasium were on, a sure sign of habitation. I knew this, after a long, hard year of working there, cleaning and waxing the floor, and making sure that the stands were free of dust. Dad had put me to it, so that we could hang out here together on the weekends, or, if I wanted to bring friends (I had none, but go Dad!), I could, so I wasn’t complaining, but sometimes, it got tiresome. I didn’t mind working there, exactly—it was actually sort of fun, peeling the dirt away and revealing the real condition of certain things—but I had never really liked chores. Who does? But, it was nice, sometimes. Staying alone in a recently renovated (and cold) gym, shivering good-naturedly under one of the woolen blankets I’d stashed in the back as I read my books. Sometimes—oh, who was I kidding, all the time—I met a special little hooligan in the corner, next to the bleachers, and we would read together. 
Nov 20

Differences-Dialogue Only


"Why do you dislike the country so much?" 
"Same reason I could guess you dislike the city, if you tweak it a bit." 
"Oh, like I don't like too many people and you don't like it if there aren't enough?" 
"Precisely." 
"Why do you like people?" 
"It's just as peaceful when there are too many people than when there aren't enough. No one notices you, but you can look, all the same." 
"How is it the same?" 
"Because it can sometimes be so full, it's empty." 
"That doesn't make any sense." 
"You'll understand, someday."
"You're only seven years older than me, you know. Mom and Dad and I know you aren't slick." 
"I know. It's still enough." 
"Is it?"
"Good question." 
"You're impossible." 
"I love you too, kid." 

Nov 19

Pieces

The best, and possibly, the first thing — or, at least, the first thing I remember, anyway— that my mother ever told me, her arms wrapped around my small body, black hair glinting in the firelight, was, "Your heart is not a conduit. Not a vessel for others to bend and break and walk through at their leisure." 

I, being only three years old, didn't understand, and just nodded, eager to please. 

Mom's blue eyes went liquid, soft, long, blunt fingers carding through my hair, wisping through the warm strands. 

"Who you choose to love is your choice, my darling." 

Her lips pressed to the top of my head. 

"Keep control of your own heart, my lovely, and when you find someone willing and deserving, you give them a shard, a small piece, of your ever expanding love, but never all of it. That way madness lies." 

Now, here, alone, I think, I'm sorry momma. I still can't replace your piece. 

Nov 19

Keep On

I walk, silent, my fingers sliding across the moist bark, knuckles brushing soft moss, the pads of my feet just barely making a sound against the leaves blown across the ground.

My back aches. My knees creak.

I keep on.