Thomas is late, he runs down the stairs with his prescription clutched in his right hand. He left the tv on, and his cat's eating his bagel. He runs graciously to the bus stop, but it's too late. He puts his hands on his knees. He hasn't run since highschool, his face is flushed. He leans backwards now, hands on hip hips because his back hurts. A single raindrop falls on his left eyelid. He stays still, he just felt it. He has no idea what this is. He feels as the raindrop slides down his cheek and joins his tears. He has no memories of ever doing this. He just tastes the salty water at the corners of his mouth. The young man standing next to him doesn't even realize the emotional caos unfolding next to him, he just stares blankly into nowhere waiting for the next bus to come. Thomas smiles for the first time in his life, but not because he thinks he's dreaming since he never has. All he knows is that something's bursting inside of him. If he knew the word euphoria it would dwell behind his teeth. Thomas enjoys every single one of the next seven raindrops that fall on his face. There's no one around. The young man took cover under a building's tent and looks in his direction coverd in apathy. Thomas spreads his arms and starts to raise them slowly, he cries laughing. The red ink from the government's stamp in his prescription runs down his left hand and wrist. Thomas couldn't care less about the beautiful turquoise pills his president gives him.
She sat next to me while we wondered what we were going to play this time. “Do you think he’ll come?” but as soon as she finished asking we heard the door knob turn. My dad came into the room, saw me and asked about her. I could barely say a word because his cell phone rang; he grumbled and went out. He had just closed the door when Marie came out from under the bed fixing up her braids. My dad argued in the hallway. After a while Marie exclaimed “I know! Let’s play made-up countries” - “Okay” I closed my eyes and concentrated on creating something because we had played this many before. I heard my dad say goodbye “Quick! He’s coming!” Marie ran to hide in the closet. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the room and looked at me with worry in his eyes. “If you know where she is please tell me son. She needs help, she’s sick.” I lowered my head and looked at Marie out of the corner of my eye; she was spying from the closet, begging me not to tell. As soon as my dad noticed he asked angrily “żWhere is she?” Not wanting him to get any angrier I just answered “Grandma’s in the closet.”
Crimson light seeped between the windows, the sun was dying outside. You could hear muffled weeping in the room. Her family sat on the first benches. A friend approached the casket and whispered some secret before going back to her seat. The illusion of silence was heavy and dry. She could hear everything from suppressed tears to the candleâ€™s wicks burning. She could hear her motherâ€™s dress brushing against a strangerâ€™s suit; smell the alcohol in his breath. She was desperate but stood still, she couldnâ€™t move. Her throat ached of trapped screams and her angst crashed against her inexpressive face of dry tears. Everybody spoke words, but nobody was really talking to her. The penetrating scent of incense made her nauseous, the scent of never again. Sad men surrounded the casket and placed it of their shoulders, she stays still and desperate. Now the casket lies on the ground. Something tears apart inside her as she hears the shovel go in the ground. And she begs, she begs sheâ€™ll be able to open her eye so they know sheâ€™s alive.
*Chlorotic means weak and /or pale in spanish. It's some sort of pathology in english. I decided to keep it since it still sorta fits in with the story.
Def: Pathology An iron-deficiency anemia, primarily of young women, characterized by a greenish-yellow discoloration of the skin. Also called greensickness.
The judge's cat yawned as he banged the gavel. He arched his back in a very Haloween-esque way while someone's mother was given 10 years. "I wonder how many they'd give him if they found that boy he chained up in his basement" the cat wondered. "Eh...I'm not telling, he just tastes so damn good".
She watched his lips curl in a grin that he stole from the devil. He tapped her knee with his cane, made from her former lover's femur and spoke "I always thought Lola was a good name for you". She felt a tear escape, run away from her tearduct and panicked at the thought of him noticing. He darted towards her and grabbed her face as he licked the tear away. "Lola..." The name swirled up from his cavernous voice and tainted her dress. His fingers started to sink behind her ears as she closed his eyes... "Lola..." he groaned as her flesh writhed in his hands, against his pores... and detached from her skull. She felt her eyelashes fly off and her lips getting torn off but didn't even flinch. He defaced her with a passion reserved only for art... And growled as the last bit of flesh was removed. He stood back and glared at the empty sockets that once held her amatist eyes. The blind doll took a step towards him and he grabbed her by the waist. His long fingers wrapped around her neck...and traveled up to her bleached skull. He covered her face and slid his hands off slowly admiring her lucious lips, and the mole that rested on her right cheek. "Lola..." he whispered and her red eyes opened up to smile at him.
His thin pale arms wobbled for a bit as he tried to maintain his balance, the other kids clapped and cheered as he slowly walked along the wire. "Do a back flip!" Said a chubby girl "No! A somersault!" said a blonde boy. The petit entertainer smiled, crouched to gain impulse, and did a back flip-somersault - back flip combination that left the kids in pure awe. "Hey! Watcha doin' there?!" growled a tall obese man that stomped his way to the crowd. The other kids ran away laughing and screaming. The thin pale boy stepped off the wire and muttered "Nuttin'". "Well I've had this circus for 36 years, that ain't no nuttin, kid. Hey, interested in joinin' this joint? Got any more of them neat tricks?" The circus man asked. The wonder kid nodded excitedly. "Well lemme see it, boy" The stray child smiled and vanished into thin air.
Her lips parted to expell a gray sigh as her eyes squinted. It was one of the few moments in which there was no one around. Loneliness had eaten aways her insides over time, making her will succumb to tainted thoughts. She closed her eyes and pushed off the chair; her neck broke right away. It wasn't long before they found her, a couple of maids went into her room and fell to their knees, mouths wide open. They were silent for a few seconds as lilac tears streamed down their cheeks. Their eyes did not waste a second going over her pale skin, her sad lips, her dead eyes... They were stuck to the knot that descended from the celling and hugged her neck. It was the most beautiful piece Arachne had ever made.
The Worst Kind
She walked across the room quietly, layed beside him, and closed her eyes. She couldn't sleep, but this time his glass of whiskey (which she used to stare at) wasn't on her nighstand. Her thoughs drifted along her childhood and all the people she never ever saw again... That afternoon she met him, when he pushed her swing. It had been so long since that day. She knew how to cry without making a sound now. She moaned a bit as she tugged the thread that came out of her skin, between her breasts... She was the worst kind of puppet.
How Could I Refuse?
His lips brushed against my eyelids as he shushed me. "I can stop it" he said, his voice was intoxicatingly exquisite. I'm one for voices, they just make me tingle, and his made me feel as if he was licking my brain. I stayed quiet for a while, just to quench my craving of his faded whispers. "I can stop it" he groaned as his hands gently wrapped around my neck, he made me feel like glass. I nodded while one of his hands tangled in my hair, grabbing the back of my head. My lips parted a few milimeters as he tilted my head back. His other hand crawled up my collarbone, slid up my neck and stopped at my lower eyelid... I felt his nail slice up my tearducts, slowly and almost tenderly. I stopped crying for the first time in 2 months.
I noticed you since I walked into the room. Of course I didn’t go straight to you, no. I talked to Mrs. Pinnault and her French accent first; it hadn’t left her after 34 years of living over here. I didn’t hesitate to accept, using the little French I knew, to take care of Azabache, a gorgeous, fat, black cat she claimed was part panther. I let my pupils wander to the corner of the room as I put her lilac-scented, wannabe granny hug in my skirt’s pocket. You’re still there.
I walk through the room conversing with who I find in my way, being a good hostess; pleasant, delicate, and polite. I must confess I can hardly concentrate, I imagine you watching me as my back faces you, speculating my name. I’m sure you have no idea I already know yours, I know everybody’s in this room; you’re all in my folder. I let your name slip off my brain and tickle my palate without letting it get tangled in my voice, yet. I think about what to tell you as I move forward. A simple hello is… Simple. I wonder if you like me, at least physically.
Do you like me? You haven’t seen me so far, or at least I think so. I go over details about me you might like. I’m 17, I study by day and help my dad in the family business at night, sometimes I sing in that blues bar around the corner, my mother left us when I was 15; no, not that. Do you like my dress? I made it; it’s one of my hobbies. I had to wait a whole week to get the lace that’s around my neck and shoulders, but it was worth it. I walk towards your table feeling a little nervous and I’m bold enough to sit beside you; you’re beautiful. I guess you’re 25, well, I know so. My folder contains more than your name.
You’re still impassible to my presence, or at least you appear to be. I’m happy to be close to you, demanding nothing, adoring you in silence. A copper lock has slid from behind your ear and I’m holding back the urge to intertwine mi fingers in your hair: it must be your style. An unexpected yawn surfaces from my sternum and I take the chance to give you a subtlety from my part. I let my hand softly caress your knee, telling you I’m fascinated by you. You say nothing; maybe it’s no use to be femininely timid with you. I feel my blood rush to my face as I lean towards you; I’ve decided to let you know of my soft lust. I’m going to kiss the corner of your mouth, taste your lips hoping you bite mine. I won’t talk; I’m going to be delicately audacious.
“Irina!” my father calls from the basement’s door. A cold sigh emerges from my larynx, I know he’ll scold me. Here I am, wasting time when you’re the only one in the room left for me to embalm.
Wow, you read everything?
Edited by Siren, 17 July 2009 - 02:38 PM.