She wanted to stare at the sun, bright hot white that would sear her eyes, take away the vision displayed. But only the moon shone through slatted windows, casting shadows and making red stain glimmering thick black.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers let him go, Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Kneeling down she eyed cold feet, so pale and still as she traced the empty veins and wished a noise of protest would fill the small space. Nothing came, only the whispering echo of a gun hanging like a ghost in the silence.
Clever tricks and pretty smiles, a mask to hide the lies. Silver barrel with a silver bullet. “Catch him, Kill him, monster, beast. Put him out of his misery.” Orders wrought without room for denial, she was simply a dog on a choke chain, pull too hard and end up strangled. She’d done as they asked, and now tears stung blood shot eyes as she witnessed the result of the rambling lies.
He hadn’t been evil. Golden eyes had been wild but not feral glowing above her, fingers tipped with claws gentle and not tearing. The lips on her’s didn’t bite or gnaw, they nipped and licked, drawing sighs that built to screams. A carnal sin, against the code, flesh and bone should have no persuasion on the soul.
It had ended with a slug through the brain, ending pleasure’s refrain. Skin splattered red washed and dried, clothes tugged on and weapon cleaned, all she had to do now was leave. In the leftover quiet she wanted to explain, “I’m sorry, I was told.” But there were no ears left to hear her voiceless plead. She was just following the leader and leading the unnatural to their deaths with innocent’s masquerading eyes, lamplight to flies.
Standing on shaky feet, screams building in the back of a hollow throat, wet cheeks a final farewell, she backed out and disappeared. A gunman on the loose, trigger finger quick to fire, rid the world of evil; sins tainting an unwilling heart black. But she was just a dog on a chain, master waiting to hear of her fame.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Winter Wedding
I've been married for five years now, as a bit of a celebration for that, I got together with a friend and took pictures in my wedding dress. Granted I revamped it a bit, added a belt, didn't wear the straps and used the veil as more of a shawl, but it was a good day. I wanted to take pictures in the snow on my actual wedding day but due to weather and time it was too dark and there was a lack of that white stuff! So here we go, five years later I get to do what I intended.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Untitled
Ash. It floated on the air like snow, coating the city in smeared grey. He took a breath of his last cigarette, ignoring the stinging heat on his fingers as it burned too close to the filter, the smell of singed wool assaulting his nostrils. It was better than the stink of death and charred wood that lingered in the bitter cold air.
Dropping the glowing butt into the cracked stone, already missing its warm nicotine, he ground it under worn boots and pushed away from the wall, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder and trudging down the narrow streets. His knapsack was alarmingly light and he knew carrying it was useless but he clung to it anway. A fools mission, scouting, looking for survivors, in a city of dead. How long had it been since he’d seen the white fog of breath on another soul? Instead he saw white faces rotting, flaking dried brownred and gaping mouths no longer able to suck in air.
He wanted something to drink, smooth gold fire that would warm his heart and keep it beating in his chest. Life felt foreign, he felt akin to a mummy, wraped in clothes that clung to him like a shroud, encrusted in dirt, blood and sweat; days, weeks, months old. A second skin just as filthy as the flesh underneath it. How long had it been since he bathed?
How long had it been?
Since his radio crackled life, since he’d heard orders, since was sent to this forsaken city, since his food had run out? Time was meaningless in a world of gray, shaded mornings, cloudy skies fogged with soot, black starless nights. They’d long since forgotten him, cast him off as another victim of an experiment gone wrong just like his commrades. The rest of his platoon had died the first few weeks they’d been dropped off, some coughing until their lungs bled and spilled at their feet, vaccines rejected. Others putting a bullet through their skulls to silence the screaming that echoed night after night.
It was quiet now, eerily so, to the point where he sometimes aimed his rifle at the sky and let of a round, screaming murder with every bang, just to hear something. But even bullets only echoed hollowly before they too fell silent.
Eyes scanning the empty street he let out a gutteral half whimper half sigh before turning to find shelter for the night. Another day spent wandering on blistered aching feet, ready for a night spent staring through one eye at his knife in the light of his small fire, watching it flash and wondering how it would look drenched in red and glimmering. He’d try if he had the courage, but like a plant withered and brown under the baking sun of the desert, he clung to life for reasons unknown. He’d find someone, anyone, before he breathed his last, he didn’t want to greet death on his own. A vow spoken the morning he woke up to find himself half blind and the last alive.
*
Morbid half stories that spill into paragraphs on my computer screen. I have no idea where this is going. I just started to write it tonight and here it is.
Dropping the glowing butt into the cracked stone, already missing its warm nicotine, he ground it under worn boots and pushed away from the wall, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder and trudging down the narrow streets. His knapsack was alarmingly light and he knew carrying it was useless but he clung to it anway. A fools mission, scouting, looking for survivors, in a city of dead. How long had it been since he’d seen the white fog of breath on another soul? Instead he saw white faces rotting, flaking dried brownred and gaping mouths no longer able to suck in air.
He wanted something to drink, smooth gold fire that would warm his heart and keep it beating in his chest. Life felt foreign, he felt akin to a mummy, wraped in clothes that clung to him like a shroud, encrusted in dirt, blood and sweat; days, weeks, months old. A second skin just as filthy as the flesh underneath it. How long had it been since he bathed?
How long had it been?
Since his radio crackled life, since he’d heard orders, since was sent to this forsaken city, since his food had run out? Time was meaningless in a world of gray, shaded mornings, cloudy skies fogged with soot, black starless nights. They’d long since forgotten him, cast him off as another victim of an experiment gone wrong just like his commrades. The rest of his platoon had died the first few weeks they’d been dropped off, some coughing until their lungs bled and spilled at their feet, vaccines rejected. Others putting a bullet through their skulls to silence the screaming that echoed night after night.
It was quiet now, eerily so, to the point where he sometimes aimed his rifle at the sky and let of a round, screaming murder with every bang, just to hear something. But even bullets only echoed hollowly before they too fell silent.
Eyes scanning the empty street he let out a gutteral half whimper half sigh before turning to find shelter for the night. Another day spent wandering on blistered aching feet, ready for a night spent staring through one eye at his knife in the light of his small fire, watching it flash and wondering how it would look drenched in red and glimmering. He’d try if he had the courage, but like a plant withered and brown under the baking sun of the desert, he clung to life for reasons unknown. He’d find someone, anyone, before he breathed his last, he didn’t want to greet death on his own. A vow spoken the morning he woke up to find himself half blind and the last alive.
*
Morbid half stories that spill into paragraphs on my computer screen. I have no idea where this is going. I just started to write it tonight and here it is.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Elephants
The water is grey this early, a calm unbroken expanse of shades. Breath puffing white on the cool air, she huddled deeper into the wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the red of her car the only color in a monotone world. In the poor light she can almost imagine monsters swirling in the deep, peering out where sea met sky and smiling, harmless with sharp teeth and gaping mouths. Were they there to swallow her dreams?
But maybe it’s just the alcohol still humming in her veins, warming her blood and dulling the chill seeping through wool socks and worn jeans. Another year gone. A good year. A fantastic year. And yet the melancholy slips in regardless, like the devil with his pretty lies, whispering half truths and twisted reality. Not good enough, didn’t try hard enough.
They were oddly easy to believe in under the half light where night meets dawn meets day. She’s there alone, has been all night, with only a thermos of coffee spiced with alcohol to keep her company. No one else wanted to venture out to meet the New Year with runny noses and dreams of deserving. She smiles wryly at the thought, running fingers through chilled hair, slicking it back, giant worries and scintillating dreams lumbering through her skull, loud like elephants in her ears, stomping and trumpeting everything she hadn't completed to the world.
Ridiculous thoughts in a tired addled mind.
Crunch, tires on gravel distract her from lonely gloom, so unlike her usual chipper self, before the slam of doors, one two, reach her ears and voices drift through the inky sky. “How do you even know she's going to be here?” she knows the voice and hearing it is enough to make lips twitch.
“Its New Year's morning, where the he else would she be,” She knows that voice too, this one even better. After all, she is intimately knowledgeable about the curve of pierced flesh the words tumble out of. Sitting still, she feels the sorrow tugging on her heart slowly start to slip. Either she was that predictable or just known that well, either way its comforting to hear.
Seconds tick-tock, matching heavy steps on stone and sand until the voices drift closer and he can hear the words, smug and haughty, “See, I told you.”
“Whatever.”
“Shove over punk,” a hand presses against her thigh, ringed and warm and she obediently shifts to the side, making room for her two guests on the hood of her car. “We’ve come to ruin the pity party,” Warm lips meet her cold ones in a kiss, tracings of a tongue, and the rest of the heaviness in her bones seems to float away.
A snort of semi-disgust reaches his ear and she grins, “I don’t think we have approval.”
“He,” the lips mumble against hers, “is just jealous.”
“I’m right here, and you never mentioned trading spit in your list of things to do when we found her,” the words were dry with only a hint of chastisement coloring the consonants and vowels.
Laughing, the other pulled away and made himself comfortable, just as the first streaks of gold tipped over the horizon. “What are you so afraid of? You won’t get cooties and whatever happened to ‘Whatever I want’?”
“It’s whatever I want, not you,” the retort was made through chapped lips and the car dipped even lower with added weight. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”
With a smile, tugging at her mouth and worming its way into her heart, she handed her thermos over. “Drink this,” she urged as an arm snuck around her waist and she let her head fall against a soft shoulder. Her regrets were sifting from her skull to tumble with the rocks on the shore, getting washed away in the light of friendship, lovers, and dawn.
Suddenly it didn’t feel so dark, the past so dreary. The year ahead was bright gold and the elephants, loud and obnoxious in her ears, could shut up.
A/N: Anyone have any regrets from the old year as we approach the new one?
But maybe it’s just the alcohol still humming in her veins, warming her blood and dulling the chill seeping through wool socks and worn jeans. Another year gone. A good year. A fantastic year. And yet the melancholy slips in regardless, like the devil with his pretty lies, whispering half truths and twisted reality. Not good enough, didn’t try hard enough.
They were oddly easy to believe in under the half light where night meets dawn meets day. She’s there alone, has been all night, with only a thermos of coffee spiced with alcohol to keep her company. No one else wanted to venture out to meet the New Year with runny noses and dreams of deserving. She smiles wryly at the thought, running fingers through chilled hair, slicking it back, giant worries and scintillating dreams lumbering through her skull, loud like elephants in her ears, stomping and trumpeting everything she hadn't completed to the world.
Ridiculous thoughts in a tired addled mind.
Crunch, tires on gravel distract her from lonely gloom, so unlike her usual chipper self, before the slam of doors, one two, reach her ears and voices drift through the inky sky. “How do you even know she's going to be here?” she knows the voice and hearing it is enough to make lips twitch.
“Its New Year's morning, where the he else would she be,” She knows that voice too, this one even better. After all, she is intimately knowledgeable about the curve of pierced flesh the words tumble out of. Sitting still, she feels the sorrow tugging on her heart slowly start to slip. Either she was that predictable or just known that well, either way its comforting to hear.
Seconds tick-tock, matching heavy steps on stone and sand until the voices drift closer and he can hear the words, smug and haughty, “See, I told you.”
“Whatever.”
“Shove over punk,” a hand presses against her thigh, ringed and warm and she obediently shifts to the side, making room for her two guests on the hood of her car. “We’ve come to ruin the pity party,” Warm lips meet her cold ones in a kiss, tracings of a tongue, and the rest of the heaviness in her bones seems to float away.
A snort of semi-disgust reaches his ear and she grins, “I don’t think we have approval.”
“He,” the lips mumble against hers, “is just jealous.”
“I’m right here, and you never mentioned trading spit in your list of things to do when we found her,” the words were dry with only a hint of chastisement coloring the consonants and vowels.
Laughing, the other pulled away and made himself comfortable, just as the first streaks of gold tipped over the horizon. “What are you so afraid of? You won’t get cooties and whatever happened to ‘Whatever I want’?”
“It’s whatever I want, not you,” the retort was made through chapped lips and the car dipped even lower with added weight. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”
With a smile, tugging at her mouth and worming its way into her heart, she handed her thermos over. “Drink this,” she urged as an arm snuck around her waist and she let her head fall against a soft shoulder. Her regrets were sifting from her skull to tumble with the rocks on the shore, getting washed away in the light of friendship, lovers, and dawn.
Suddenly it didn’t feel so dark, the past so dreary. The year ahead was bright gold and the elephants, loud and obnoxious in her ears, could shut up.
A/N: Anyone have any regrets from the old year as we approach the new one?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Reptiles
I've come to realize Starbucks is one of the best places to write for me. Lack of distractions, yummy drinks and music through my headphones. I haven't been feeling too well lately (I had strep throat and all the goodness and fever that comes with it) so some nights, instead of going to jiu jitsu with Mike, he would drop me off at the Starbucks near the Studio and I would simply write write write.
Then there comes the realization that a lot of the things I write are dark. Dark themes that most people would rather shy away from, but for some reason they like to stick in my head and upset me until I get them down on paper. But then they sit there, and sometimes I like how they are written, despite the content, and I want to share them, and get opinions, but I am too afraid of people's reactions.
That said I am going to post a piece of something that I wrote over the last week. It contains some rather disturbing imagery so if there are those of you out there who don't want to read what your daughter/sister/friend has going on in her mind some days and be disturbed... stop reading now :)
Inspired by the lyrics of this song.
Cold. It was cold, breath whispering fog in the early mornings before light hit broken glass, bouncing red, blue and gold through steam, a miasma of beauty. It reminded her of butterflies, flitting carelessly through the air, stamped on skin and shimmering with sweat.
Shivering, she pulls naked knees closer, scraped and bruised with misuse, and tries to focus past the cool bars of the cage pressing into her shoulders. She has a name, she knows she does; or she had, before everything was stripped away and the needles made the world blur. Antibiotics, medication, words so often whispered in her ear as countless syringes perforate her veins, the air growing hot, thick and laboured, skin shrinking and so sensitive to the touches sliding along thighs. It’s not medicine, she knows that much, even as her spine contorts and heat wracks her frame, arching for more.
Once, when she was less caught in the never ending circle of pain punctuated cruelly with pleasure, she tried to escape. Now, whispered praises are like the poison inserted into her arms, noxious and oh so addicting. She learned her lesson well, the bite of a whip curling and snapping against her spine teaching her the consequences of her actions. She listens.
There are no more questions. There were at one point, and she remembers them mattering, recalled that sealing her lips was important. She doesn’t know why anymore but it doesn’t matter, she can’t dredge up the answers anyway. But she misses the queries, they kept her more alert, gave her a semblance of schedule. Now it was just dawn, coloured grime and black iron walls, midnights where scars flashed moonlight jewelry and a studded tongue flicks the white contours in memory. Everything else is just in between, hot or cold, misty.
Footsteps, hollow and loud, trudge closer and through bleary eyes she sees him. She can always evoke his name, it's burned into her flesh, imprinted on her mind. It’s the one she calls out, twisted nightmares and scintillating dreams mingling with reality as the world comes unhinged.
Afterward she's left alone. Always alone. Curling in on herself she stares as the shafts of light, no longer colors. Instead they fall unheeded through the cracks, sparkling on dust. She wants to touch them, but every time she’s tried they simply swirl away, dancing on bright feet, hiding a lingering warmth.
I guess the title only makes sense if you read the song title and the lyrics. There is a lot more to this, and I swear it ends on a hopeful good note... but I needed to get it off my chest and write it. Which is probably evidenced in the way its nearly 6000 worlds long in its entirety and I wrote it in less than 48 hours.
Anyway, try not to judge me too harshly. I am trying to be brave here and show some of my work that I know not everyone will look at with approval.
And that is all...
Then there comes the realization that a lot of the things I write are dark. Dark themes that most people would rather shy away from, but for some reason they like to stick in my head and upset me until I get them down on paper. But then they sit there, and sometimes I like how they are written, despite the content, and I want to share them, and get opinions, but I am too afraid of people's reactions.
That said I am going to post a piece of something that I wrote over the last week. It contains some rather disturbing imagery so if there are those of you out there who don't want to read what your daughter/sister/friend has going on in her mind some days and be disturbed... stop reading now :)
Inspired by the lyrics of this song.
Cold. It was cold, breath whispering fog in the early mornings before light hit broken glass, bouncing red, blue and gold through steam, a miasma of beauty. It reminded her of butterflies, flitting carelessly through the air, stamped on skin and shimmering with sweat.
Shivering, she pulls naked knees closer, scraped and bruised with misuse, and tries to focus past the cool bars of the cage pressing into her shoulders. She has a name, she knows she does; or she had, before everything was stripped away and the needles made the world blur. Antibiotics, medication, words so often whispered in her ear as countless syringes perforate her veins, the air growing hot, thick and laboured, skin shrinking and so sensitive to the touches sliding along thighs. It’s not medicine, she knows that much, even as her spine contorts and heat wracks her frame, arching for more.
Once, when she was less caught in the never ending circle of pain punctuated cruelly with pleasure, she tried to escape. Now, whispered praises are like the poison inserted into her arms, noxious and oh so addicting. She learned her lesson well, the bite of a whip curling and snapping against her spine teaching her the consequences of her actions. She listens.
There are no more questions. There were at one point, and she remembers them mattering, recalled that sealing her lips was important. She doesn’t know why anymore but it doesn’t matter, she can’t dredge up the answers anyway. But she misses the queries, they kept her more alert, gave her a semblance of schedule. Now it was just dawn, coloured grime and black iron walls, midnights where scars flashed moonlight jewelry and a studded tongue flicks the white contours in memory. Everything else is just in between, hot or cold, misty.
Footsteps, hollow and loud, trudge closer and through bleary eyes she sees him. She can always evoke his name, it's burned into her flesh, imprinted on her mind. It’s the one she calls out, twisted nightmares and scintillating dreams mingling with reality as the world comes unhinged.
Afterward she's left alone. Always alone. Curling in on herself she stares as the shafts of light, no longer colors. Instead they fall unheeded through the cracks, sparkling on dust. She wants to touch them, but every time she’s tried they simply swirl away, dancing on bright feet, hiding a lingering warmth.
I guess the title only makes sense if you read the song title and the lyrics. There is a lot more to this, and I swear it ends on a hopeful good note... but I needed to get it off my chest and write it. Which is probably evidenced in the way its nearly 6000 worlds long in its entirety and I wrote it in less than 48 hours.
Anyway, try not to judge me too harshly. I am trying to be brave here and show some of my work that I know not everyone will look at with approval.
And that is all...
Monday, November 30, 2009
Nanowrimo 2009
Well I finished on time! I got my pretty little winner banners and certificate.
Now what to do with the story. It needs to be edited badly. I think I will con my friend Mylan into doing it for me since she is the one I rambled to throughout this whole process of writing.
Now what to do with the story. It needs to be edited badly. I think I will con my friend Mylan into doing it for me since she is the one I rambled to throughout this whole process of writing.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Untitled Vandal(ism) Secret Live Sessions.
I wish I could explain my reaction to this video and the two others from Alice Nine's Untitled Vandal(ism) Secret live sessions. The way it is filmed, the sound.... it gives me the shivers and I wish I could have been in that room lying in the middle of the floor, invisible and just feeling the vibrations wash over me. There is something so incredibly beautiful to me about the whole thing. Its not the people in it, its the audio and visiual stimuli together.
Something inside me just clicks.
I love music. I love how a song can make me cry far easier than a movie. I love musicians for writing and playing music that I can listen to over and over and over and over.
I wish the DVD wasn't so damn expensive so I could own it and play it on my tv with headphones on and just let myself get immersed in the music.
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