Nov 10, 2013

Everyone Loves A Big Fat Lie

Dotted over, too bright and too bold
Soft surfaces to make you feel at home
Effervescence clinging to sinewy flesh
Bones bend and mold to fit the heat

Desperate wetness inside your mind
Mingle with yes-yeses and oh-nos
A glint of gold to embrace the black

A dark tide sweeps through the night
All semblance of dreams, washed away
And the leaves that dance across the road
Will guide you nowhere

Glittering Assholes Say It's Beautiful

Glittering guilty man
Charged to topple velvet red
Painfully, overwhelmed with scent
Tasting nothing but the pleasure

Sharp spikes burrow undergroud
Maligning your imagined perception
A burst of color from plastic flowers
Coiled about in gold

Muted light filters through the canvas
The bitter spray is deconstructed
Hateful tepid tears to drown the ashes
Pierced through the heart by false truths

Feb 13, 2009

The soft sounds of an unidentified piano piece poured out of the speakers.

Feb 12, 2009

Prompt: “A character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day. He finds something on the kitchen table that is not supposed to be there.

That night should have been like any other for Samuel McCready, a blue collared worker to who nothing interesting ever happened. Nothing even particularly curious ever happened to Samuel McCready. Tonight, however, was curious indeed. Samuel roughly forced open the stubborn door to his apartment and slammed it behind him. It’s not that he was angry, but a hard slam was the easiest way to get that stubborn old door to shut. He tossed his keys on an old wooden table next to the door and rubbed his neck. He had been at the factory for 10 hours today, creating car parts that would be shipped to another factory for assembly. A few years ago, metalwork had sounded pretty cool to him, so he had worked for one year to get an apprenticeship certificate at the local tech school. Now, after working in the same job, building the same parts, Sean wasn’t entirely sure he’d picked the right career. Months had turned into years. He still entertained the thought that he go back to school someday and get some kind of real degree, but for now he would stick to what was paying the bills

He lived alone in a dingy one room apartment

Feb 11, 2009

Regardless of all else, she's glad you think it's sexy. Because right now, she's lying on the carpet. Next to her lies an empty wine glass, stained with drops of cheap red wine that she bought for the sole purpose of getting to the point she's at now: lying on the floor and obsessing over you. Besides the empty glass is an empty bottle. It used to hold the cheap red wine. She can still smell it a little. But more than that, she can smell you. And, fuck if it's not all she can think about. She whispers nonsense to herself and wishes that she were a different color.
He watched her reflection on his computer screen. She pulled on the drawstring pants and slid into a pair of flip-flops. He absentmindedly clicked a few buttons to make it look like he was actually occupied and not completely distracted by her. For gods sake, she may not need it as much as better endowed ladies, her lack of a bra gave him an absolute inability to look anywhere else. Her nipples poked through the thin tank top as if it was snowing outside. He removed his eyes from her reflection for one moment to glance out the window behind his desk. Beautiful. Clear blue skies, a puffy white cloud or two. He looked back at her nipples. It wasn't fair, really.
You would've been my panacea from this life. You failed to notice me; I was falling over for you. Begging you. It doesn't mean a goddamned thing anymore. I keep dreaming that you'll turn around and notice me lying on the floor. When I look up I just see those fucking sycophants surrounding you. How can you breath? I fight and I struggle and I fall. I fail. And what could possibly matter now?
She rolled onto her back and squinted. The sun tried desperately to peek around the heavy red curtains that he insisted in hanging. Now, she was grateful for the lack of bright early morning light. A dimness had settled into the room. On her side of the bed, there was an old scratched up night table adorned with a lamp and several books. There was a dresser, a tall one with five drawers sitting one on top of another. There was a vanity, a long glass table covered in glass bottles, brushes and jars, a chair that didn't match strewn with clothes from the day before, and a mirror above it all. An old wooden table that she had taken from her dorm when she graduated held a stereo that played radio, CDs and cassette tapes. Recently listened to CDs lay around it exposing tastes; Eric Satie, the CD currently in the player. A record player that needed a new needle sat on the table. A Cat Stevens album lay on top of it. Records, tapes and CDs were meticulously stored under the table in alphabetical order. The three doors led to a walk in closet, the bathroom, and the rest of the house. The walls and carpet were different shades of cream.

She sat up and the down comforter slid off her body, exposing her tits to the room. She reached inside the night table drawer and fished out the cigarettes and lighter. As she lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag, she heard a muffled moan and early morning sigh coming from the body lying next to her.

"Umpfffff...," said the body, inching over until his ever-present stubble scratched against her pale and naked legs. He was smiling, just barely awake. He kissed her thigh. She bumped her hand against his shoulder. He groaned and rolled over, pushing himself up into a semi-sitting, mostly slouching position. He took the cigarette from her and she leaned over to the night table and dug the empty ashtray out of the drawer. She held it up and he tapped the cigarette on its rim. One hand absentmindedly played the hem of her panties. He held the cigarette out for her and she took it back. She threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed a discarded tank top off the floor, shimmying into it as her lover looked on in disappointment.

She took a drag and sighed.

"Coffee," she said. A statement, not a question. She took a drag and tugged on her tank top. He looked at her with sleepy morning eyes. She shifted her weight. She walked over to the CD player and turned it on. Je Te Veux spilled into the air.

"Fais de moi ta maîtresse
Loin de nous la sagesse
Plus de tristesse"

She threw a glance at her lover and took a drag. She walked over to the bed, placed the cigarette in the ashtray and left the room.

Feb 10, 2009

I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it. Also, this is shit.

She navigates her bicycle through the dark, wet streets. She chose this day on purpose: the rain is essential. Seeing his house, she pulls up on the pot-holed driveway. She hops off her bike and wheels it to under the carport, gently leaning it against the house. She turns and heads towards the front door, and, as she does so, walks into a tree.

"Oh, shit--" she exclaims, softly, but perhaps not as soft as she'd like. She wonders, did he hear her?

She walks to the door.


He feeds his fish and watches them for a moment. He thinks that he should probably change their water this weekend. He makes his way to his study. As he walks through the living room, he could swear he heard someone outside. He pauses, looking out the front window. Movement? Perhaps just the tree swaying in the wind. He keeps walking then stops again. There is definitely the sound of movement on his front porch. Someone is talking to themselves.


She pauses on the front stoop.

"I love-- no that's really frickin' lame. I--. Do you remember--?" How to start? How to tell him?

She looks up. Oh, shit. She swears she saw movement inside. Did he see her? She shakes her head. No time. She reaches forward to knock on the door. Too late. The door opens.




"Oh shit..." Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.


He stares at the girl standing, drenched, on his front stoop. Why did she come all the way here in the rain? He cannot imagine for a moment what she must have reasoned with herself. Her hair falls in wet black waves, plastered to her face and neck. She pushes the offending hair away from her eyes, which are smudged with black. Her soaked sweater and jeans cling to her body like a second skin. She shifts her weight and her shoes squeak as wet running shoes often will.

"Uhh...," he begins, so eloquently.


She takes a step back. Now what? Lyrical words should be tumbling forth from her lips but she just can't get it to start. His eyes are wide with surprise behind glasses that glint with the reflection of the lamppost behind her. He's still got on the clothes he was wearing earlier, simple khaki pants and a button-up shirt.

"You know why people always show up at someones door step when it's raining?" she blurts out.

"Two reasons," she continues, without waiting for a response. "For firstly, that person is more likely to let them in out of the cold and rain. For secondly, if they were to cry, it would hide the tears." Her head is bowed, eyes glued to the floor. There is a tense silence. She drags her eyes upwards. His face is a mix of emotions: confusion, pity, and glimmer of something she cannot identify. He opens the door wider.

"Please," he says, his voice is low. "Come in."
I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it.

The picture of Emily was actually inspired by a character from a movie that I rather like.


He bowed his head in the direction of the blasting wind, staring perfunctorily at the pathway made to resemble brick as he did so. His arms were shoved tightly in the pockets of his beat-up bomber and an old red scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck, but the persistent wind pierced his layers and froze his skin. Though his bag leaned heavily against his back, his was grateful for the release from the cold it provided. He was used to the North Carolina mountain winters, but this winter had been particularly cruel. He reached forward and his glove-less fingers grasped the handle of the glass door and roughly pulled it open.

She shivered and leaned against the cold tile of the wall by the doorway. Her chin-length scarlet hair was in disarray from blowing in the wind and she ran her electric blue polished nails through the blood red tangle. She wore purple velvet pants and a tight pink tank top with blue straps that matched her nails. Because it was December, she bundled up in a forest green corduroy coat with a fuzzy lining. Leaning against the drab green tile she stood out as a burst of eccentric colors found only in the big box of Crayolas. As he passed her in the doorway, she made quick eye contact. Her eyes were an intense blue, though not as electric as her nails, they were lined in a similarly electric color. He nodded at her and shoved his hands back into his pockets. He continued to walk past her, but his foot caught and he stumbled. An old leather messenger back lay slouched on the floor beside her and in the strap was his entangled foot. He shook the leather strap off his foot and gathered his dignity to continue on his way. Her electric eyes followed him with the curiosity of a child. He slowed to a stop by one of the doors on the long hallway. He turned to look at her. She tilted her head slightly and continued to gaze with wide eyes, her mouth pulled into a mysterious shape that was not quite a smile and not quite a smirk. He walked in and sat down, pulling out a notebook and pen. The professor walked in the classroom and glanced at the clock. He took a gulp from his coffee, placed the cup down and, frowning as if he had forgotten something terribly important, walked out with a purpose. As he walked out, she walked in with the same childish curiosity on her face. She, with the graceful swiftness of a dancer that he could not see in her, placed herself at the seat in front of him. She pulled out a sticker covered clipboard and a red pen. She held up the red pen, looked at it for a while, then turned and placed it on his notebook. She looked where he had written the date and his name.

"Do you like red, Liam," she asked in an altogether American way. He looked up, confused. "It's so aggressive," she said, with wide eyes that gave way to her mischievous half-grin. She turned and placed the pen on her clipboard. "I'm sorry about my bag, Liam. Though, it was your fault."

"My fault? It was sprawled in the walkway," he teasingly protested.

"Well, you should watch where you're going," she countered. The professor then walked into the classroom with a sheaf of papers.

"Alright, class, lets begin in the traditional way..."

His voice was drowned out in Liam's mind as his eyes focused on the scarlet hair in front of him. Her incredibly intrigue was matched with the face of an angel and he wasn't quite sure what to make of all of it.

I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it.

I was sitting there, sipping my coffee like every Tuesday night when the door opened with it's uniform jangle. For some reason, this time I looked up and there she was. She swept into the room upon the heels of the wind, trailing the scent of lilies. The exquisite creature who's name, at this time, was a secret I longed to be privy to. I knew nothing about here. How could I? I had only just glimpsed her face. I flipped the page in my Organic Chemistry and pretended to study, all the while gazing at her bewitching smile. If all eyes in the room where glued to this beauty, I knew not, as I could not tear mine from her.

She ordered a French soda and strode with graceful confidence to the table adjacent to mine. She looked up at me and flashed a smile. How I did not melt I cannot tell you, but somehow I smiled back. Setting her beverage down, she pulled a sketch pad and random writing utensils onto her table. Ah, so clear is my memory that I recall every detail. The grass stain at the ankle of her pink pin-striped khakis, the slight stain of green ink on her right hand. The gold fountain pen she next pulled out of her bag explained this, as she used it to make a rough sketch. Lilies, I observed. Why one would use a fountain pen for to sketch, I do not know and I cannot say, but that may simply have been a preference.

Realizing I was staring, I turned back to my studying. The more I read, the less I took in. I must have read the same page four times. It was all I could never do to keep her enchanting image out of my mind. Her soft lips and every strand of her perfect, shimmering, cinnamon hair was imprinted in my memory. I found myself rubbing my face, as I do when I am in deep thought. I run my fingers down my goatee in that "conjuring evil plans" sort of way. My fingers make it up to my cheek bone and my right hand lies flat on the left side of my face and I rub slowly, but with pressure, up and down. I realized this and placed my hand on the table. I looked up and caught the eye of the barista, who raised and eyebrow at me before averting his gaze to my left. So, he was taking the time to drink in the beauty that graced the room as well... I picked up my breve and took a rather large sip, nearly spilling it down my front. I wiped my face and goatee off with a napkin and looked towards the adjacent table again.

With polished fingers and a manicured hand, she was bringing the flowers to life. Or death, perhaps. The image was of a broken vase and lilies strewn about the ground. There was a stand just to the right of the disarray on the ground. It was of intricate design with a pool of water on the top surface that dripped slowly to the ground. Bringing color to the portrait, I observed what was once an arrangement of pink and stargazer lilies in a clear glass vase.

Flipping the page, she make larger, close up rough sketches of lilies and alstroemeria with a pencil. She was fairly talented. I wondered if she was an art student. Possibly she was stuck in a job she hated and this sketching in the coffee shop was her time to unwind and let her mind run free. I wondered if she lived with her boyfriend. Did she have a boyfriend? Was she attached? Did she live downtown? She was probably very metropolitan. Was she pleased where she was going with her life? Did she know the affect she had on people? On me?

I was lost in my thoughts for sometime when she snapped her sketchbook close. The utensils and book disappeared into her a messenger bag.

I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it.

Hehe, this is no good. It fairly SUCKS, but it was a fun exercise

Excerpt from the diary of a stalker

0528: I'm still waiting outside her window. She hasn't woken up yet. Well, if she has, she's still lolling in bed. I'd like to loll in bed with her.
0912: She's finally awake! My hours have paid off! I heard her stretch and groan and the lights come on. I must find a better hiding spot. Can't have her spotting me when she exits.
0933: I just snuck into her room while she was in the shower. I took a shirt from her laundry and some notes out of the trash. Yes! The shirt... it still smells like her...
1045: She just got off the phone. She's meeting some friends for breakfast. I'm so jealous! I wonder what she'll eat? Probably a waffle and strawberries, maybe some milk, just like always!
1120: Sitting in the cafeteria, a fair distance from her, but close enough to watch her eat. Those luscious lips biting into that strawberry! It is divine...
1156: She sat and talked with her friends for a long time. They laughed and had such a good time. Maybe someday I could sit with them! Someday... It is back to my room for now! I've pilfered the cup she drank from at breakfast. It still had marks from her lip gloss.
1430: Well, I took a nap. I was dreaming about her, but still I am angry at myself. So much time lost that I could've been watching her! Ah well. I will go find her now.
1645: After about 20 minutes of searching, I found her playing the piano. It was so lovely. I was lucky to have brought my micro-cassette recorder and camera!!! I took many pictures, the flash was off so the quality is poor, but at least she didn't notice me. She played for about an hour before leaving, luckily through the door far from where I was. I'm back in my room now. I've been listening to the recording of her playing the piano over and over. Surely she is an angel.
1922: She is having friends over tonight! They are going to watch "Sense and Sensibility." I haven't seen it but it seems she loves it. Something about Alan Rickman. Fuck Alan Rickman. Anyway, I'm sure I can find a nice perch outside her window to view it a bit.
2243: Everyone has left. She is in her room, tidying up. I feel like I know her so well now! I think that perhaps it is time to let her know how much I love her. How much I adore her. I'm going to go into her room now. I know she'll love me. At least, she will learn to... she'll learn...

I am finding things I wrote a while ago, all fiction. I am posting bits and pieces of it.


She walks away from the computer. Must study, she thinks. No -- she knows she must study! If she doesn't study, she won't make a decent grade on this test. She might, in fact, make a C. Disgusting. Absolutely unacceptable. Not many people know this, but last time she made a C, she climbed to the roof and stared all the passer-by's below her. She thought of rolling off. Just rolling. But she didn't. Not that time...

She flops down on her bed, her hands behind her bed, and she just thinks. She can't stop thinking about her.

"Love is patient," comes a voice. How ironic.

"I didn't say I wouldn't get over it," another voice replies. The wall between her suite and the adjoining one is very un-soundproof. It's funny because they can't hear a single thing she says, but she can clearly hear everything they say. They continue and eventually move to talking about other things.

And still, though she ought be patient, she is not. And now, she can't stop thinking about him.

She sits back at the computer.

Now what...

Apr 26, 2008

Too cool to care
Factory girls
Staring at the colors
Reflecting on the ceiling

Mar 27, 2007

What is it that we're dying to do
As we fall and get tangled together?

We're sending each other up
And over waves of emotion,
Which may drown us if we let them.

You've got secrets, but then,
So do I.
Now, I struggle with my past.
You struggle to understand.

We exchange keys
To the rooms in our hearts
Where our souls are laid bare.

We cling to one another,
Climbing higher and higher
Where all we've left to do is fall