About this morning

I’ve been reading a lot. It is what I do to distract myself from the urgency of the mundane tasks that overpower my weakly motivated days. I read to forget reality. I immersed myself in the book after I saw her standing over the kitchen sink and scrubbing her nails viciously.

The red velvet skirt is horrid. She said that it was a steal at the second-hand store; I agree in essence – it is criminal. There is very little that can make it glamorise. It clashes with her blue-tinted skin, the hollow of her eyes and the prominent bones in her neck. The skirt did nothing for her; in fact, it was an injustice. We were going to the beach!

The reckless wind didn’t play with her skirt – it wasn’t fun like that. I wasn’t feeling too playful myself. Sand was whipped across my face exfoliating the skin and grains stumbled awkwardly into my ears. It was torture.

At home, sand nestled in her red velvet skirt hastily fell to the carpets – freshly cleaned. She caught my eye and shrugged her shoulders. I walked to the reading room in aggressive silence. Supper slipped outside our reach.

She stood at the door, her head tilted to exude certain innocence but we both knew better. The room shrunk the longer she stood and I feigned scholaristic concentration. But we both knew better.

My eyes lifted off the page, my facial expressions minimal and my composition carefully orchestrated. The book remained in place as our eyes met. The fury of the unspoken filled the room and compromised any form of truce. She waited with the deadly patience of an Amazonian jaguar.

My face flushed and the words gathered and jumbled in my throat. Cotton found every crevice in my mouth and absorbed every drop of liquid in my being.

The words were like raging bulls fighting to be let out. My mind kept pace. I expected chaos yet in a barely audible whisper, I said: “The blood under your nails…”

—

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Grace O’Malley at http://www.librivore.com gave me this prompt: Blood under the fingernails and sand on a red velvet skirt.

I gave k~ at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com/ this prompt: You’re sitting alone facing the beach on a Sunday morning, struggling to get the words on paper. Just as you admit defeat, you write the name of a past lover, and the first line of a letter: “Only love can break your heart.” Complete the letter.

I met you for a reason

The day I met you was one of my happiest. I was with my girlfriends: drinking too much, laughing too loud and just being happy. We all also happened to look fabulous.

I met you for a reason. I don’t want that reason to be you breaking my heart once and me allowing you to do it twice after that. I want that reason to be that despite being hurt we found our way back to each other. We are not at that point. This story is not over, I won’t accept that.

You’ll be the father of my children. Yes, we’ll have more than one. Yes, I know I’ve claimed that I don’t want children: I will have yours. It seems natural – also we will have to adopt at least one child.

So my darling, it is time to take a risk because true love doesn’t just happen, you need to take a chance. You need to make a choice and I am asking you to choose me. Each day I will you to be braver than you are now.

We have never said it before. We have enacted it but the truth behind each action we’ve every taken is love. And I love you so much. I want the absolute best for you and I know that right now, I am not it and she is. But one day, one day it will be me.

Missing you is painful but wondering if you’ll ever return is killing me.

Untamed thoughts

The past of a timeless gem. Beneath my smile and playful exterior lurks darkness undiscovered. Troubled waters and turbulent seas. Volcanic emotions and molten hot words. 

My heart is disturbed, disrupted, destructive. If we design our own destiny, what am I playing at?

 

What is the point of being strong, if it blocks emotion? I sometimes think that I’d rather be weak and loved than strong and alone – but I know this to be a lie. Can’t I just be strong in love?

17h14

The tick tock of that fucking clock drives me up the wall. Tick tock. Moan. Drone. Tumble. Fumble. Slowly going batshit crazy. You’d think by now I’d have it figured out.

I check the digital: 17:14. Why does time move so, so slow when your mind is challenging the speed of light?

He asks suddenly: ”Do you like photography?”

I must look confused.He gestures to the camera in my hand. I know that it is there but for some reason, I look down. The black is faded and the metal heavily scratched. I bought it on a whim. I’ve always wanted to capture moments and the 60s Minolta seemed like a sound choice. It was a SLR with changeable lenses. It was time for a new perspective on life and what better way to see things than through a different pair of eyes. Eyes that have seen many scenes and compared moments I’ll never know of.

The problem with cameras are that they can’t capture certain things such as:  the way pouring rain makes clear thought murky or how when you get too close to the future it blurs. It can’t capture the moment he left me behind in cold blood or the moment I became forgotten or when I was dismissed. It can’t capture my turmoil when I felt unequal to thirteen cents.

It may be able to capture his blue eyes and dark hair, her pale skin and red hair. Or was it olive skin and green eyes. Yet, it won’t capture his faux French accent or erratic Spanish moves. It could capture his broody soul, his sullen moods, his Gothic dress code. But it would all be images that captures half the truth. It won’t embody the back story or the emotional context. How could it?

The night before I was faced with a blackened night, shattered shooting stars and the weeping whispers of my broken heart. Tragic shadows roamed the dunes of my mind.

I look at the man oddly waiting for my response: I tell him that it has been rekindled: my passion and interest in photography. I can’t say that it ever disappeared; it just lurked in the background omnisciently while I tried other things. Things I should have been started to begin with. Things that were more sensible and practical and safe. He pierces my armour and rattles my core. His look disarms me; it is gentle yet firm, he makes it clear that he knows that I am lying. I turn my head to face the wind willing it to alter my facial expression.

The streaks of wetness surprise me. I didn’t realise that I was this weak, this vulnerable, this fragile. I check the digital to distract my mind: 17h19…

Strong

A friend told me that she envies me and can’t understand how I am strong all the time. I laughed because I knew that that wasn’t true.

I wanted to tell her that I cried when I was alone. I cried about not being loved, not being protected and having to make it on my own. I cried buckets and tanks of pain that seared my heart and burned my eyes. Pain that shot straight through my soul and fractured it. The cracks are hairline thin but unmistakable.

I wanted to tell her the constant fights I had with myself and the cruel, lambasting internal dialogues that peppered my daily existence. The talks of not being good enough and the fear of forever being alone. I wanted to speak of the nights I spent alone with my own thoughts that broke my heart beyond repair.

I wanted to tell her about the silence. The thoughts in my head that refuse to be silenced. The silence that erupted with a million murmurs about mistakes made and decisions poor. The silence that throbbed when I put my head underwater to drown the tears that streaked my face. The silence of evenings and mornings spent in solitude. The silence of having made the choices that led to now. The silence of knowing and owning each and every decision up to now. The silence is accusatory and brutal.

I wanted to say being strong means being vulnerable and daring to believe. I wanted to say that being strong comes at a cost, every single moment of the day. I wanted to say that being strong, is the hardest thing in the world and I want to unmake my decision time and time and time again. The state of ‘alone’ echoes in each chamber of my soul. I’ve chosen a route that I must travel alone. I need to learn to be gentler on myself and stop tearing myself apart.

Yet, all I said was “you don’t know a thing about my pain”.

But I suppose if you open yourself up to life and allow your self to be vulnerable then you’re really strong. So maybe she is right.

Jagged edge

There seemed to be no other way up. The edge broke her skin and hit 10 000 nerves, or so it felt. The pain emptied her lungs of air and she did everything not to let go. The voices were talking but she could make no sense of it all; she only knew that she had to keep going. The problem is that she had nowhere to go. The blood was draining from her hand. Her pulse was slowing down as the sweat dried on her face. Her body weight, doubled then trebled and with each agonising second, her weight increased exponentially. Three limbs gently swayed. She hung onto her life with every thread of her soul. Then every voice and thought went silent. Her head was being cleared of blood. Her eyes slowly went back into her head. She willed her fingers to grip the only jagged rock available when an arm appeared… It was him. She sensed his presence before she saw his voice or heard his voice. His scent filled her lungs and her head whipped forward to look at him and his extended hand. He was staring at her with those eyes and silently daring her. He was compelling. She rebelled, finger by finger, dropping to her death.

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For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Lance at http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: Her fingers gripped the only jagged rock available when an arm appeared….

I gave November Rain (k~) at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com this prompt: One thing to give up to be happy: hope. Oh, and there is another: faith.

Spin-the-bottle

You’re sitting in a circle and spilling your drink on the carpet. You giggle at jokes that have no punch line. The music is less than wonderful but wonderfully festival. The buzz of liquor silences your inner voice. It is all fun and games. A couple is making out on the couch; their heavy breathing audible despite the heavy bass and insistent buzz.

Everyone speaks at volumes louder than needed. Everyone is looking around for their someone special. Girls whisper while throwing knowing glances at certain boys in the room. Everyone hopes that they know where this night is going. The kissing couple start unbuttoning buttons and unzipping zips: the sound heightens the sexual tension more than all the liquor combined. A brutish man yells for everyone to join the circle; the time has come for the inevitable “spin-the-bottle” game.

The group cheers, this is going to be fun. Some can already taste the mix of alcohol and sex on their desire’s tongue. The newcomers to the circle carefully select their position in relation to the one who they want. Cups and glasses are filled then the games begin. The “Master of Ceremonies” takes it upon himself to begin proceedings. As the bottle, spins everyone remembers that they forgot to set some rules but the deed is done and the only rule for the first round is that you must kiss who the bottle points to – male or female. The energy shifts and silence replaces nervous giggles.

The bottle swings then stops in front of the lovely redhead. The MC sucks in his breath to stop a sigh of relief. He was not caught out. He bends toward Lady Red, kissing her softly before unabashedly putting his entire weight on her. She pushes him off and away pursing her lips before winking. It is all fun and games.

The second in line, spins the bottle so hard that his drink leaves a wet patch on his jeans. The busty one is his for the kissing yet he gets too rough and she ends it fast. The sniggers from the group are faint; someone can still be caught out. The first lady to spin does so gently looking sultry to say the least. As the bottle slows, a pained grunt causes the group to all face the kissing couple. No clothes no more. Her bare back reddened in places he’s groped. The look becomes a collective stare as she takes out a condom – everyone wishes that this is where the night is going. No one notices that someone changes the position of the bottle.

Gaining self-consciousness, the group return to the game at hand while paying the action on the couch the closest attention. The first lady smiles at the (manipulated) bottle’s instruction. The kiss lingers and doesn’t end yet is merely gently paused. The exchange is clear that this will be continued.  You’re up next. Your chest puffs out and you steal a peek outside the closet. Only one rule applies in this round and softly, you pray then exhale before spinning the bottle. The spin seems to be in your favour until the condom breaks.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Laura at http://ratherthecouch.wordpress.com/ gave me this prompt: It’s all fun and games until someone realizes it’s not fun at all.

I gave Barb Black at http://blackinkpad.blogspot.comthis prompt: As I stood holding my hand over the bleeding wound, his heart beat kept steady. I did everything to avoid eye contact but I knew that he felt that I loved him dearly and I stopped pretending that I didn’t love him beyond words.

Noisy Messi

Full house. Argh. We came later than I usually would because Messi wanted to tag along. I knew it was less-than-wise consenting from the start but when your best friend wants to bond, you agree for all the wrong reasons – this instance was a case in point.  We glanced over the sea of bodies and saw a spot that could accommodate one and a third bodies – with enough carelessness the people around us would shift and accommodate two bodies. The women were heavy made up. I never understand how you came to a core stability class all done up. To what purpose? To like a crack whore after one of the most grueling physical experiences in the world. It made little sense but this was a university town and most everyone was looking to get laid. Outside the walls of the studio were men pumping iron like their lives depended on it, so here the ladies were… Messi chatted without end as usual. It drove me nuts at times, much like at that moment. A steam roller had no chance when Messi got to chatting. The looks of disapproval bothered me none as we advanced to space one and a third. I saw them and gave them to the attention they deserve, not a minute of my time. We rolled out our mats and sat down. Sitting was easy. The rest would be a bitch. A hardcore, tireless bitch.  The overly energetic instructor came in; I always thought she was ill-suited to a class that required calm and concentration. Messi was still chatting without taking note that the entire room was silent. My look of disbelief soon put her on mute.  The warm up was slow and Messi scoffed at my tales of terror. This is going to be a breeze – her words, not mine. I scoffed and said nothing but smiled knowingly after. The instructor continued with a close eye on the noisy duo. “Are you shitting me, she expects us to do what?” A chorus of ill-timed shhhs are directed our way – it was only a matter of time, 20 minutes in and Messi hasn’t shut up for more than 59 seconds. I look at Messi regretting consenting. I knew she would bitch and moan. She looked at me with a hint of confusion, “how the hell do you do that?” I simply shrug my shoulders. Halfway through the class, Messi gives up and pointedly walks out the class. Every single person is grateful and I am do a little happy dance in my head; the instructor’s tone is much friendlier and we finish the class in peace. When I get to the Messi is lying uncomfortably on the back seat. I tap on the window and she rolls down the window reluctantly before she says, “muscles I wasn’t even aware I had are aching.”        For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Carrie at http://viewsfromnature.com gave me this prompt: Muscles I wasn’t even aware I had are aching. I gave Michael Webb at http://innocentsaccidentshints.blogspot.com this prompt: Why are you having trouble sleeping?

Third.

Blaine: I didn’t mean to steal it. It just followed me home.

Shia: You either did or didn’t. Stop lying to me. 

Blaine: I promise, I didn’t…

Shia: I know better than to believe your promises. And even by your standards, this is one too far.

Blaine took a deep breath. The way she stood told him she was trying to control herself and not fly at him. Her eyes were flaming as she bite her bottom lip. The situation would not be easily salvaged. He looked at the necklace in his hand. It was her mother’s once. Then it was her stepmother’s. He thought it a good idea to make it hers. It should have been hers second. The best he could do was make sure she was third. That is what a man in loves does. He does crazy things to prove his love… Why didn’t she see this as a sign of his undying love?

Shia looked at Blaine trying to understand why he would do something so fucking stupid. Her father already disapproved of her on probation boyfriend and anything that that bitch could use against her she did. And yet, there he was standing with her mother’s necklace that her father gave to that she-devil in his hand with no other reason except that it followed him home. For fuck’s sake, there would be no good ending to this.

She looked at the necklace. It reminded her of her mother’s long neck and ample bust. She thought about  how her mother’s honey blonde tips framed the emerald encased in white gold. The sudden wave of emotion threw her off-balance and she gripped the kitchen counter. She took a deep breath and slowly looked up at him. He extended his hand to her and without thinking she took the necklace. It was beautiful and she started crying. She cried until she dropped to the floor. Shia felt Blaine sit quietly next to her.

Blaine put his arms around her and her tears ran uncomfortably down the side of his neck. Her left hand was clutching the last memory of her mother. She began heaving. He didn’t mean to make her cry. He just wanted to show her that he loved her absolutely. He wanted her to stop crying.

Blaine: I didn’t mean to steal it. And it actually did follow me home. Before we left your father’s house, it cornered me begging to be taken home. I told the necklace that it was home. It sneered and said that its true home was with you. I didn’t understand what it meant by that and walked away. It must have hitched a ride in my back pocket… 

Shia pressed her index finger against his lips and smiled through her tears. She laid her head against his shoulder and stared dreamily at her necklace.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Jester Queen at http://jesterqueen.com gave me this prompt: I didn’t mean to steal it. It just followed me home. I gave kgwaite at http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com/ this prompt: Write a story about someone deciding which mask to wear for the day.

This thing

In me lies a thing. Something indescribable. It changes forms quite easily, creating chaos with the uncertainty it brings. It’s dark and heavy and like a rain cloud that is unable to burst. It follows me and only me all around. It predicts my every move, gesture, emotion, thought. It is the I, I seem to escape. Its weightless and fluffy, soft and sweet. It elevates and penetrates the darkness within my soul. It cannot be touched. It will not be moved. It heightens my joyousness, it adds to my fears. It puts me in the extremity of my powerful emotions and me.