(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.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 14, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
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.
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.
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