Fool

(Inspired by the Trumps - idea for a story. Broken lives and archetypes, each one looking to resolve their presentation - to finish what their card represents...)

I will never be more than a feast to folly. I was born, and I will die, and I will never understand.

The others know, and somewhere deep inside, I'm jealous. I've seen them, and they're broken, each and every one. I'm lucky, and I know it. And yet...they know. They're sure.

If there is one advantage to the curse, it's that you never need to doubt. You are. It is. And it knows you.

But I'm different. I'm privy to the show, and another player in the game of cards, but...I'm not bound like they are. I'm allowed to stumble, given the gift of doubt and anticipation. I've seen what they can do.

Even I can't be sure what I might be doing next.

I'm sorry, I suppose, for all the others. It's arrogant to feel that way, when I have my own weakness, but I do. Never being sure, never being ready, never being done...doesn't that just mean my story's never over? The rest are just waiting for their card to be drawn, for Fate to set them into motion.

My gift is freedom. My curse is the precipice. I'll never know when my steps are sure. They'll never know anything but the paths long since set before them.

Call me Lucky. Pick a card. And let the games begin.

Trigger

A cigarette flew out of nowhere, struck the ground. It was the last, worst luck that found her that night. To her, it was the end.

To the story, it is not the beginning, but certainly at least the first rising action.

She didn't drink - drinking didn't sit well with her medication. Neither did certain sugars, certain lifestyles, the significant amount of stress that she was under, and most of all, these drugs did not play very well with others. Least of all with the smooth white pill dissolving in her glass of water.

She didn't earn the first drink splashed on her. She might have earned the second - she didn't try to be a bitch, but getting soaked by some drunk idiot struck her as proof. Why be nice if you'd get the blunt end anyway? And so she said a few unkind words that didn't matter much, except to turn her from damp to doused in short order.

Now she was sure. Fate or hubris, it didn't matter. This was set to be a bad night. So when the nice young man asked her about her long and involved sleeves of red tattoos, she blew him off. He was trouble with a pretty smile - of course, she was right.

Fate had nothing to do with it, unless you believe in self-fulfilling prophecies - but it was one more thing. The smooth white pill, swallowed down in one smooth gulp that she'd forgotten by the time her glass hit the counter.

It took twenty minutes to get in and out of the bathroom, around and through the crowds, and out to fresh air and a smoke to ruin it with. Of course, her lighter wouldn't work. And no one else to save her, but the same bitch that she'd told off just a short time ago. She'd forgotten; the bitch had not.

She was tired, angry, and wet. She wasn't looking, just reacting and ready to leave. She didn't even see or smell the leaking motorcycle gas tank. The bitch was too drunk to know or care.

The gas should not have lit, but the vapor had a good, long time to rise up. There'd been a lull - the perfect song was playing.

She asked the bitch for a smoke. The bitch smirked, tried to look as nice as she could fake - and then she tossed her butt towards the woman's face.

She missed, but that was worse.

Everything was flashing light and sucking air. Vapor flew to gas, to climb up alcohol and fabric. Her hair caught like a firework and sure enough, her cigarette caught light.

And everything exploded.

To her, it was the end. The fire hurt, down into her bones. She closed her eyes.

But she was far from dead. The night was far from over.

And fate was far from done with her.

Accelerate

I put the car into gear and let it fly. It barely took a touch; she danced under my fingers like a lover, and I loved every inch of tire on the ground. She purred under me, and together, we took the ride into town.

It's the quiet that gets you worst. The city is what it is - too many malls and not enough gas stations. I'd made a list, but siphoning up was hard work and time was getting shorter. My credit card got me lucky sometimes, but finding a working pump computer was getting harder. Tech support wasn't answering. No one was.

But driving got me where I needed. Back home, I had a fat stack of survival. Food, water, solar panels. It was all worked out. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was finding reasons to panic. To move. To think. I needed something meaningful, and ever since I was a little girl, the roar of Dad's 'Vette was it and everything.

As I roared down the freeway doing 90, I had lots of thrills and surprises. New cars stalled out half inside a lane. The occasional trap set by thrillers. Jumper bones from overpasses. Cracks and potholes - the bitches, they weren't even special. My Dad's 'Vette laughed and rumbled, and we blazed aside and past it all, turning the big loop into our time trial.

Once a week. One day, the gas would end. Or worse, I'd find a problem I couldn't fix. On my fourteenth tire, my fifth spark plug. My second transmission, and the last one I'd found in months. So...once a week. That'd last a while, wouldn't it? I would be different. I'd be anxious...not like the wasters in their chairs, their beds, their offices.

The new world was supposed to be happy. Instead, the new world was satisified. We'd won. No depression. No anxiety. No one was lonely...but no one was hungry, either. Tired? Sick? Dying?

I hadn't felt lonely for two months. I maxxed out the engine and let fly. I could have died. And there it was, the ache to see another person, taste their skin, and eat them up like sweet candy, to never let them go.

But I've seen the lovers. They never wake up, rotting like pretzels in each other's arms. The new world wasn't happy; it was satisfied.

So I put her through her paces. And I was never satisfied. I never felt the wind fly through my hair like Daddy used to make it whip. But that need was enough.

I wasn't satisfied, but I was still alive. The new world hadn't found me yet; I was savagely unhappy, and I kept fighting. I'm a survivor. Me and the 'Vette, we'd go on 'til the gas ran out. And then the Colt in the glove box would do the rest.

Daddy always told me, "It's when you stop wanting that life kills you." I'm still here, Dad. I'm still here.

The Gospel According to Mike

"There are rules, man, there are fucking rules. And rule first and mother fore-fucking-most is this, and listen! You DO. Not HIT. On the bartender."

Sage advice, Mike, but fuck you. There are a hundred bars in this little redneck town, and every single one had Bud on the tap and Harleys on the pavement. There are rules, and there are regulations. They're written into the nicks in the countertops and into twisting barland stories. Mike saw himself a prophet, but tonight I wasn't worshipping.

There was a crazy quality about her. I know, calling someone crazy isn't ideal courtship strategy, but listen. Most people never dare to really see the world. Something in her smile and in the wrinkle of her nose could smell what's out there, and yet she smiles. She smiles at things that makes me drink. If that isn't special, what kind of crazy is?

Mike doesn't get it. "She's another blonde. Another inked-up mystery behind the counter. You want to give her something special? Tip two bucks a shot, and shut your fucking mouth. Magic!"

Fuck you, Mike, as if I'm not aware. There's a glass screen in this life, between the people living in a moment and the people selling it. You'll always be "that wacky/bitchy/quiet customer" to them, a character on the show they just have to watch. At least it pays, or else we might forget there's people under there at all. I wanted to be a man, and not a creeper, not a customer. Mike's gospels rang inside my ears like laughing high school hordes. They had me dead to rights, and I just wasn't being cool.

"Listen, man. I get it. I really, really get it. You think that seeing something means something. It doesn't. Nothing real ever happens within 50 feet of Jager. Trust me!" I wanted oh so much to disagree, but that Mike, he had me dead to rights.

And then she smiled at me. I swallowed half a sea of water and a wicked, sharp little chunk of ice. She laughed, and I smiled like a shameful boy might smile. She asked me if I wanted another, and I took it. I wanted more, had so many words to say. I washed them down, and that was that. She was in another customer sitcom show, and I was drunk and inarticulate.

Mike saw himself a prophet. A wiser man would listen sooner. Mike would never be more than he was, but at least he knew how to keep his dreams inside the spirits.

I never said a word. I tipped two bucks and shut my fucking mouth. The feeling passed, and Mike proved right again. The rules, they had me, dead and true.

The rules, they had me written.

Galatea

(Free-writing experiment to work through some random thoughts.)
My hands were wet and black and busy. They were certain, while my mind was loose and shaking in its shell.
The chassis frame was simple, smooth, and elegant. I’d chosen every dent and every scratch – each piece came with a history, a story, or a song behind it. I could have taken something fresh and new, but I wanted texture and meaning. I wanted perfection from age, like wine or history. Some things take a trip or two to settle in, and a good frame is no different. I knew it wouldn’t buckle. I knew it wouldn’t break. I knew that it could bend. All in all, that was the easiest work and I set to it with distant eyes.
What was I doing? Why? What did I hope to make, and what was I making it for? Was this perverted or was it passion? Was it both or neither, or something in between? The frame was soft and hard in places, reacting to my fingers by twisted nerve and old reflex. I could feel it, cold and firm, much firmer than it would be once I’d breathed the life inside it. What life could I breathe inside it? What was I doing? And why?
Next came the more delicate components. Lengths and ribbons of fleshy tube, all lubricated and carefully set into a bed in the belly of the frame. I built connections and made a pathway, a conduit for what was yet to come. My hands were certain, but I was not. This was delicate, but unimaginative. The interior was the same, all but the flaws, and here I had no time for flaws. The only stories here were climaxes and epilogues, and I had no mind for those. To know the destination, I’d need to know where I was headed with the work. The answer still eluded me.
I was holding the pumping piston as the juice slid between my fingers, and it struck me. I wanted this for me, for no one else. This creation was something my hands were aching for, taking heed from something deeper than my mind. I’d chosen carefully from memory and dream - each component, each fluid, each whisper and murmur and spark followed some half-remembered, half-imagined ideal. I was making something that my heart desired, and holding that heart, I placed a wet and gentle kiss upon it. The thrum of resonance was immediate – it would know desire as I knew it, in its fingers, in its frame. The mind would be the last to know.
The human work required a special touch that way.
The needle and thread were smoothly sewn, but the face was the slowest work of all. My mind had joined me, and it whispered aloud through my lips. It gave me answers, gave me guidance. I bore the muse internal, and before my eyes, a skull gave way like marble before the chisel, my scalpel in the sculptor’s trance. She looked at me, unblinking, as I set pale green jewels into their places. I let her watch as I set the height of her cheeks, the sharpness of her jaw. I slid a skin over her, working the living clay with a delicate cruelty – I left nothing out of place. Each blemish was intention, each error cut and smoothed away. I folded her lids over at the last, once I was sure those eyes looked on me with approval. Eyes should be closed for the first kiss, after all.
I breathed in my hopes and wonder, and I breathed out my doubts, my fears, and my weakness. I took a dozen flushing breaths, taking in all of the ambitions I could hope to share and letting out the stains of hard experience. She was a gentle work, and I would keep her clean. I was sure. I was certain. I was ready. I pressed my lips to hers and I exhaled, and with a gasp, she took in all that I could hope to give her.
I felt a flutter and her eyelids slowly rose. New fingers tensed and grasped my face, too hard, too clumsy. There was a moan, a scream, a moan again, and then she softened against me, she stilled. She looked at me. And with a cracking voice, she spoke. “Your hands are wet…master.”
I smiled. “Clean them, please. And thank you.” And with gentle lips and tongue, she set to work. She stained and smudged her cheeks and chin, but it was perfect. She was perfect. She was mine.

Sway

She moves, and the world has to twist in her wake.

Maybe if you saw her, that would a little more sense. Me, I'm a seasoned veteran of shaking hips, but even I took notice when she hit the doors and shattered that glass like a rush of butterflies. She was disruptive, destructive, and pure. She left the place the way she found it, but it was never quite the same. She broke the world for second impressions, because she'd moved on since then. Understand? If you're lucky, you will.

She's got a class of character that swallows people whole. She's as violent as the sea and as calm as the beach in the sunlight. She burns you in the right ways, and the time is never quite enough. Her eyes are fierce and tidal - when she's high on you, you cannot breathe. When she ebbs, you dry and thirst. Get what I'm saying? If God or the devil's willing, you might.

She never stays. No, she never, ever stays. The way she moves, it isn't written into her choreography. She knows how to touch, how to kiss, how to sink in deep but she couldn't dream to linger. I've seen a lot of girls come and go, but going is her nature, as certain as the sunrise. The view of her leaving is just as intoxicating toxic as the sight of her coming. It'll kill a man. It'll make a girl a heartbroken woman. But it's all part of the promise in her stride. You feel me? If the angels are watching, you won't.

I hope you think I'm full of shit. Some moments ruin a man for feeling. It's better to believe in the good old stories than to chase them. You get what I'm saying? If you do, I know your eyes and I share your battle scars.

When she moves, the world twists in her wake. That's me, twisted. All in all, I can't complain. What good would it do, when nature has its way in the end?

Misunderstandings

(To the tune of an old Blues beat in 4/4)

Girl o' mine, ain't she sweet?

She's got a hell of a dance to my beat.

But she got her dangers, too.

And if you don't know, let me give you a clue...

One...night, after the show,

A honey comes by, wants to give a blow...

Of a sweet trombone that she learned as a child.

But I swear upon my Savior that my woman went wild!

(She went...)

Whip! Crack!

Across my back!

The birdie that I loved went on the attack! (I said...)

Whip! Crack!

Across my back!

She really made me wonder why I ever go back...

(Now...)

I'm in looove, I really must say.

I thank my Lord above for her every day.

But sometimes, sometimes I really wonder why...

And if you don't know, let me give you a sign.

One night, I was havin' a drink

And a red-haired girl asked me what do you think?

Of her generous...smile, that ran for miles.

But, hey, what do ya know, my good woman went wild...

(She went)

Whip! Crack!

Across my face...

My woman really wonders if I know my place. (She went)

Whip! Crack!

Across my eyes...

And then my pretty woman, Lord, she said goodbye...

Said goodbye! My heart was 'bout to BREAK!

I knew right then, I had made a mistake!

And I wailed so hard a couple ladies came by...

But my lady walked in, when she heard my cries!

(And then)

Whip! Crack!

Across them girls!

Oh, the very evil words that my woman could hurl! She went...

Whip! Crack!

Across me, too...

And that was sure as hell not the last thing she do, she went!

Hook! Smack!

Right in my gut...

And I was prayin' for forgiveness, but she wouldn't hear 'but' (She went)

Click! Pow!

Right into my heart...

My pretty little woman, man, she blew me apart...

(Ohhh)

Whip! Crack!

And now I know...!

Go back to your woman, brothers, after the show, I said!

Click! Pow!

She knocked out my soul...

And that pretty little woman put me into....a......hoooooooooole...

Echo

(Prompt: A more in-depth, first-person view of Glenn Dunn.)

Letting go is the easiest thing in the world to do. It’s taking up the burden of life again that’s difficult. I’ve spent many years being nothing, being empty, being perfect to whoever needed something perfect…it wasn’t until I could see myself that I saw it for what it was.

When I was young, I was bright and smart and brave and cute. To the girl who lost her kite, I was the reckless tree climber. To the boy who ran into bullies, I was the Dirty Harry hero of the kickball field. To the frustrated teacher, I was the smart-ass with so much potential…by year’s end, I was passing with high marks and her faith was restored. To the principal, I was the pampered lawyer’s son who always had an excuse, and I always did. It was easy back then. It felt right.

It was high school when I realized…when the girls started to look, when the furtive and scared boy dreamed of someone to share his secret. When the team needed a true athlete and the honors society needed an academic decathlete…I was the man they needed, and there was always another place for me to fill, another role to play. I used to think that I loved them all, or that I was the villain they thought I was, or that it was all so very simple. Those crucible years are full of fire and passion, full of confusion. I was never confused. I was never anything.

It was high school when I realized that I didn’t truly care. I was doing what was expected, and because I had no stake, it was easy to pretend. I could bend where others would struggle. I could lie with a heart free of guilt. I was the perfect kiss, the touchdown pass, and the prom king, because I never once had to compromise my spirit. There simply wasn’t enough inside me to compromise. It wasn’t until recently that this scared me. Back then, I thought that I was comfortable and perfect. Perhaps I was.

I killed a cat once, to see if I’d get some sick, serial killer thrill at some act of God. Instead, I watched the fur stain and smelled the stink of death, and for a moment, I wondered if the cat even knew what to think of me. I certainly didn’t. I haven’t harmed another creature that wasn’t on a menu since.

College was easy. I developed a system of score, because I was bored. My thesis statement that never went to any professor was on social economics. I could assign value, read the supply and demand for words, feelings, and actions. It came naturally to me, and without a heart to get in the way, I scored high. I made the right connections. I passed the right tests with the right help. I went to the right parties. Then, I dropped out.

At the time, I didn’t know why I did. My father was furious, swearing to cut me off if I didn’t take a ground-level job for his firm. The choice was simple math, so there I was. I still went to parties. I took classes at night, worth far less prestige but where I met a different class of people. My portfolio expanded. I’d quit because I didn’t care about the score, not really. I cared about being comfortable, challenged. I wanted to grow.

I wanted to win. Until it happened, however, I had no endgame. I had no idea what winning meant. Was it happiness? I had never been happy, so I had no way of knowing. Was it wealth? That path felt too easy, and a game of diminishing returns. Power? I had power, all that I needed to secure the life I wished. I had no ego to stroke with excess. What, then, did it mean to mean, to a man without a soul?

When you descended, I learned the answer. Your fall, the flame of your blood and the smoke of your tears – they gave me my answer.

Until we found each other, there was no victory. Now, with a purity that has never touched this world, I feel. My economics are ablaze with sensation, and a sense of justice that cannot compromise. I give you a path and you give me a destination.

I was an echo chamber, and now I have a song. I am possessed. I am your possession. I now possess what you represent, and you possess a form beyond abstraction. We are, and we are mighty.

Thank you.

Idols

(Prompt: The first line came to my head and stuck there.)

I catch the ones that she’s too sweet for.

She’s my angel, my inspiration. My back to her shoulders, I’m her shadow. While the light shines on her, it stops with her and it’s left me cold. They think I hate her, that I resent what she is and what she has become, hate her for being clean. They’re fools. She’d be nothing without me, and I’d be too much without her. She keeps me in my place, and that place lives. It breathes. She keeps me clean like lye; of course it burns.

They think I’m cruel. I play with too many lovers. I dress in dark leather and I wear sharp metal and I scare mothers and fathers. I’m the bad body, the demon, and the player. I’m the wicked one. I represent a certain needful demographic that she could never touch without a proxy.

They’re wrong.

I won’t let them touch her. I step into the dark and bring them trembling before her throne. I am the demon, and she is my God. I serve her from my empty place, and she receives me with a compassion you will never know.

They say that she has suffered and risen above a life that I embrace, and that much is true. I’ve seen her wet. I’ve seen her ugly. I’ve smelled her sweat, and I have smelled her at her nastiest. I pushed her back. I screamed and shouted. I left a bruise on her cheek, and I was in agony. All the stories talk about her struggle, her adversity. Her pain. She couldn’t feel a thing until I broke that mask of invincibility. No one could smell her until I shattered it. I was her villain, but now she is the martyr. I was the obstacle that she needed to overcome. I lost her then.

They draw her with angel wings. Her light’s severe and striking. She’s never once forgiven me, but she pretends to forget. They tell her to abandon me, and she ignores them. She remembers that I smelled her, and she keeps me close. She sends me down to feel the way she felt, and I can’t deny her. She tells me that I’m beautiful the way I am, and I accept her. She’ll only touch me if I smell like another woman, another man. They call her pure, and this is true. They call her innocent, and I could almost cry.

She stands above me, hands on my shoulders. She keeps my head low, throws her thigh against my cheek, her nails into my hair. She makes me see her as the animal, makes me smell her. Only I can see her as she is – a woman. Only I can worship her as her true self and not an idol. She hurts me with her words and with her kindness, with the way she forgives me but she never lets me rise to breathe. She’ll never let me heal. She’ll never let me want to.

She’s a monster, with all the fire and heat and hate of ancient angels. She is an angel. They just don’t know what angels are. She makes me be her demon. I am a demon. You just don’t know how demons hurt, how they must always serve a master. I drink her sins, so she can be the everything you need of her. I drink her sins because that’s everything she’ll let me have.

She used to kiss me. But those were in our human days. You don’t want the humans, though, and we couldn’t survive in human ways, not with the passion you fed to us. We were warped and changed. We became what you demanded. So she will rise above, and I still lie below and at her feet. You put her on that pedestal, and she put her heels into my back. Our loving audience…

I miss the days when she had a name. Now she has all of you, and less of me, and I keep what I can reach to dull the memories.

Don’t judge me. Don’t you dare. You like me better this way.

Stark

She would never move away from here, and now she knew why. It was the fourth day that had been the hardest. The sky was damp and gray. The air was damp and gray. The world was dark and gray. It seeped into her like morning mist and left her feeling all of her sweat, all of her stink, all of her flesh. She felt like meat, and in the mirrors back and front, she looked like it.

She felt raw, exposed, and hewn open. Along her spine were scissor holes of deep blank ink, lacy ribbons weaving like a corset down to the small of her back. The trail picked up on the backs of her thighs, the backs of her calves. She was sewn up the back, inside of herself. She felt too thin in the damp, too pale in the soft light out of the open loft window. She could just make out the shape of her ribs under her breasts, tipped red and sharp from the cold. Her lips were the same pinched-skin red, even unpainted. The bags around her eyes were the same red, with eyeshadow to match.

Against her neck, the new red lines of new gold hoops gave her permanent jewelry. She wanted something to shine, needed it, and the ink was an impulse. Maybe it had been a mistake. Against her flesh, the precious metal lacked its sheen. She looked as half-alive as the city outside the sill.

Then it happened. The cirrus feathers fluttered apart and a wicked scar of white tore across the sky, hot and sharp. The mist was revealed and sent into a swirl. It was escaping that pure shaft, a sword of light in a world without. Old buildings went from austere to shining white and pure. Dull brick shone bright against the gray backdrop. Trees and grass became the deepest greens the girl had ever seen. Her skin, once pale, was transformed into porcelain. She wasn't a corpse; she was a work of china, a doll that someone loved or would love. Hope had a shape and a color and an impact.

She wrapped a blanket around herself and sat in the sill long after the shaft of light departed. There'd be another, or something like it. This was her favorite time to live. This was her home. It was everything about her, right or wrong. It was right.

Rabbit Food

(Written on a smartphone.)

Natalie was starving, and you'd never know from watching her feast. She lived, she lived, she dated, and she danced. She knew success and friendship. She lived with challenges and met far more goals than she missed.

Then she drank in private. She turned a love of tender ropes and gentle chains into a true fantasy - unreal but remarkable in execution. She was a prize and a pawn, and it was all as pretty as glass and just as filling in her belly. She worked until she played. She played, but it never worked.

Why? Her diet was light and empty, planned and organized. She'd found the life solution, and it wasn't living. Everything felt right, but nothing felt raw. She was processed. All preservatives.

Looking into her was like seeing half a science room mannequin. From a privileged angle, you could see right through her insides. She was dying the slow death. It was a nightmare she wouldn't remember until it was too late to wake up.

Fingers

She was a percussionist, tapping away at her craft with an electric beat. Sound flowed into language and her shoulders shrugged in deeper, coaxing out the rhythm as she swayed. The music was a part of her, and she fed into it with a manic energy. It moved her and she moved, more than she'd ever admit. She nodded her head and swiveled her hips in a swivel chair. She was in the music of her fingerfalls, and loved it.

In an electric world, she was a composer of some renown. Her keystrokes were the bass beat of an anonymous audience, a roaring mosh of analog appreciation in a digital forum. She told stories. She lived lives. She solved. Always, she solved. When she gamed, she managed resources like a general. When she blogged, she plucked the heartstrings against the street noise of net ADD and web OCD.

Here, like mostly anywhere else, she solved. She was in the know, and they loved her for sharing. She didn't, really, but that was to be expected. She gave them teases and they gave her links and likes and more eyes to dazzle with her water-ripple waves of information.

Even out of her stiff suit, she was primed to solve. She couldn't stop. More, she couldn't see the solutions for the show. She never even knew she was still working. It was under her fingertips, even when they were raw to bleed.

She solved in her sleep. Her dreams were conquered. She was her own piper, and she only led herself deeper into the solve. Always, into the solve.

Bitch, By The Way

(Prompt: "Bitch, By the Way sounds like a song name." "Well, go write it!"

You had me…at hello…you had me.
You had me…all to your…self.
You had me…on your string…you had me…flying….
You had me……
....till you let go, and I say-

Bitch, by the way…you shoulda done,
Shoulda done me way, way
Better than…
...the way you can.

You had me…up and down…you had me…
You turned me…up and down…you turned me.
You led me…up and down…sky and the ground, far from the ground
You had me……
.....till you dropped me low, and I say-

Bitch, by the way….you shoulda done,
Shoulda done me way, way
Better than…better than, the way you done me….I say, hey-

Bitch, by the way…you coulda done,
Coulda done me any…other way.
Better than…this game you play. Don’t you say?

Bitch…...you done wrong... wrong…..wrong.
Bitch…...you treat me hard, left me so hard....oh,-
Bitch…...a better word, I couldn’t find to say….but anyway….
Bitch…...Have a wonderful day….

You left me…in the cold, in the rain…(You left me.)
You left me…on your chain, to your bed…(You left me)
You left me…incomplete, on my knees…(You left me!)
You left me…no goodbye….you left me! You left me!

Bitch, by he way…you shoulda done,
Shoulda done me way, way
Better than….better than the way…I’d never done, oh
Bitch! By the way…you never done,
Never gone and done yourself
Better than….Better than…me.

Never do better than…better than…
….Me.

Unprompted: Beat

(A look into the past of one of my recurring characters...)

The thrum was her heartbeat; her heart was too quiet, but this noise would shake the walls and break the boards if she let it. There was an angry buzz and a swallowed roar under her fingertips. Those tips were nearly bleeding, but she wasn’t finished yet. The blisters might break open, but it was early. Her fingers would get tougher. Her heartbeat was able to speak and scream, but she was learning how to make it sing. For now, she ached. Tomorrow, she would shiver and buzz through the air and ears.

This vibrating and thumping room was her shrine and her secret. It was where her heart was growing, taking shape, a mandala of old prayers and boot scrapes written across the floor when she would dance around posters of the Clash, pictures and printouts of Flyleaf. They were hers and hers alone – they might belong to others, but not the way that they belonged to her. She’d taken them home and taken them here, and everywhere she’d gone, they'd hid inside of her, and now she was just barely learning how to sing back to them with her nearly bloody fingers and her half-balanced beats.

The bass was heavy in her hands, strapping her down, big on her smallness. She didn’t care, she could make a sound as big as a lion’s roar, as deep as the tromping of an elephant. Jericho fell to the sound of a horn, and that horn resonated with a heart the same as hers, and so she plucked and struck and thumped her big, black boots on the wooden floor until the neighbors stabbed up and cracked down with brooms and bursts of vocal violence. She pretended not to hear them – she wasn’t brave enough to push back, not yet, but pretending was her specialty. Her fingers ached, but she could pretend that she was changing, that she could feel the toughness flowing in the thrum, and so she was.

Her heart was an angry, beating, biting bass against her tiny fingers and it was shaking her body free of the little closet. Soon enough, she’d buzz right out of everything and that door wouldn’t hold her any more. She’d take her Clash and Flyleaf out into the empty air and she’d shiver and shudder the sky like thunder falls. This was her heart’s prayer and she’d sacrifice the blood in her fingers again and again until the thunder struck and lightning sparked her heart alive.

When she finished cleaning, shutting, and locking everything away, her fingertips were angry red and her body stung and swam with sweat. She pushed through the door with her aching back and she was back inside the room of pink and green and yellow softness. The music here was quiet, strings and songs of peace and poise. Her big, black boots were off her feet and pastel purple socks made hardly a sound at all upon the carpets, thick and full. The room absorbed her, and she was stuck, her heartbeat screeching feedback behind the walk-in closet door.

Her fingers were still aching. The buzz was in the pulsing of her blood against her skin, the hollow pain inside her bones. She sang softly in the shower, but the beating of the steam against her skin couldn’t wash away all of the ache. Her heart was still racing, still alive in echoes. The spikes and eye shadow washed away, but the stinging stayed. Her secret shape was beaten and bruised into her body. The beat was still alive.

Her fingers ached and she was still alive. Her heart was still beating. She could not be silenced, even if she never made a sound outside her shrine. She was alive.
She was alive.

First Sight (NSFW)

Her beauty was in the softness of her, the smoothness. She was powerful and long and structured, but every structure had its elegance. She was a machine of muscle, but made of finer parts. When she moved, she flowed. When she stepped, she tensed. She was feline and steel wire and sensual strength. She was a monster and I had to have her.
The first blow caught her chin and blood flew red, a dark alarm. The second strike she caught in her fist and her eyes were blazing cold and burning green. I felt a shiver and then my jaw shattered like so much china. It was agony. I smiled anyway and ran my fingers through her chocolate hair.
I shoved that sculpted face of hers through the plaster of the hallway and her grunt shook her from her shoulders to her calves. It was tantalizing and I was caught off guard by the hook of her foot. I started to fall back and she caught me like a dance, lifted me like a skater’s partner, drove me down like a stake. My skull might have fractured. Either way, my head was swimming from the experience. I laughed. She screamed and kicked.
I bit her leg and with a jerk of my neck, she was down. I was on her. Then she was on me. Then I was on her, and her heels were in me. I cracked her ribs and she clawed my face. I howled and she roared. I tore the second skin off of her finer workings and she dug her nails into my belly so deep I felt empty inside. She shoved back my chin and fell onto my ass.
She mounted me, took me. Beat me. I was bruised and bloody and floating and flying. We grunted like beasts and colored like the sunset. I filled her until she couldn’t moan and then I filled her full and strong and she drank me until I was nothing. We collapsed in sweat and red and shocks of pain. We were done.
I never got her number, but she took my wallet.
Two years ago, she sent a picture. My daughter is so beautiful. Just like her mother.

Clash

(Prompt: Playing with fire.)
If there is one truth to the universe, it's that everything works towards a balance. It's a beautiful truth, but that doesn't make it any less cruel. From the laws of motion to rules of chemicals to the basic ideas of the human mind - activity is ultimately temporary, often destructive, and while it always leaves the world changed, it always leaves. This story is about activity, the longest lasting reaction in the world.
Damien was everything a smart person avoided. He was raw, unrefined, and passionate. Give him a goal, and he was a torch - he could cut through any obstacle, lead like a general, inspire to Olympic heights, but let him go? Let him go, and it was your mistake and all of your consequences. He'd drink up the bar like air, leave lovers in ashes with a bitter taste in their mouths. He'd taken lives, when things got too hot to handle. He was wildfire incarnate.
Mary was the opposite, but that didn't make her safe. She was everything a man needed to live. She was a wealthy provider, soft and smooth if you knew your way around her. She was full of love and took care of everyone she touched. She was pure, but that didn't make her flawless. She was greedy to a fault and trapped in her role. She'd follow her course until she ran her tanks dry, and it would never be enough. No cause, no romance, no peace. If you didn't hold her up and bound her, she'd wear you down to nothing and drag you under. She hadn't met a thing yet that could hold her close forever.
When Damien and Mary met, the reaction was swift and devastating. The air gasped. The ground popped and smoked. Their lips locked and it blasted them both, but they didn't care. The fury of their meeting left disaster in their wake, the stuff of legends, stuff of storybooks. Fire rained. Floods surged and raged with steaming heat. They clashed and fought and screamed and fucked, and in that moment, everything was happening everywhere for them. They were happy. They were dying.
They had to part. The separation was the opposition of the connection, but it was no less severe. Dry and aching drought ran up their bodies and out. Invisible heat charred the ground where they walked. Her gentle hands and soft kiss were denied to the world. They were mourning and everything was darkness and thirst and cold. They were empty, but it wasn't over. Nature abhors a vacuum, and heartache isn't balance. In our hearts, we all know that's never enough.
And so, like bouncing waves, they clash and part and part and clash, drinking in the world before diving into each other and losing painful pieces. Steam and sparks cry out like a bad love song - the best kind, the ones we sing along to. The song about knowing better, but doing worse.
The oldest curse in the world is that while the universe demands balance, its beauty thrives on action and reaction. The world paints itself in pain. It's beautiful work, but tell that to the man who learns the price of gravity.
Tell that to the sea that plays with fire. One day, there won't be a thing left to watch. Even later, not a thing left to remember them by.

Barnacle

I'm stuck to the wood. I'm starving. I'm a predator, a hunter, and a beast, but has my back been broken? My weight is heavy on me and I cannot move. My eyes stalk the waves of backs and averted eyes. They know. I know. I'm not a threat if they look away.

I'm stuck to the wood. I breathe in the stains of alcohol and I breathe in a little borrowed fire. Not enough to move my weight, but enough to ignite imagination. In my fever dreams, I'm vital - the predator, the hunter, the beast. Awake, I am unimpressive. I'm static. I'm stuck.

I'm stuck to the wood. Their armor's up. Their ears are up. They hear me. I see them. The chase is over and it never even started. I'm too weak to lose, too proud to let them see me run. They should crawl into my mouth, and they would die grateful, the ugly beasts. Their gracious hunter. Their bitter predator.

I'm stuck to the wood. Retired and removed. I'm forgotten. I've forgotten how to hunt. How to prey. How to dance like the beasts dance. I'm stuck to the wood.

I'm nothing.

Mayfly

(Prompt: Some lovely music by Vienna Teng - thanks to Seras)

I made my decision, and it lingers with me. I’m never lonely, and I have no regrets. A lesser heart and on lesser nights, the ache can reach down like the winter, but in the mirror glass and in lights of eyes, I find my vision to go onward. I can see everything now, on everyone. What I what to see most, though, is what I’ll never see again. For having seen it, though, I’ll pay this price. I’ll live on, open and aching, with a memory of a mayfly in the middle of winter.

She gave me every warning, and I drank them up like something light and sweet. There was a thrill to the dying moments, something sensual and hungry. Claws on the blackboard, fingernails against the skin. When I kissed her, the world went away, because the clicking of the clock’s gears had to be pushed aside. It was vital. It was here. It was now. Now and never again, and so it was everything. And then it became everything else.

I see her in the sliding lights on the bus stops at three in the morning. I see her smile, but not exactly, whenever a young girl smiles. I see the faint toss of her hair, imitated by a thousand actresses, but never quite correctly. They don’t have her walk. They can’t match her voice. They don’t carry her urgent peace – a calm borne of true and simple joy. She’d made her choice. She chose me. She was content.

So I will be content. With my streetlight mirages. With my brushstroke touches on crowded streets. With the actresses wearing her scent. She’s gone, but she’ll never leave me. My mayfly heart is immortal and endless in my point of view. Thank you.

Come back.