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?
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.
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.
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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.
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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.
He wanted her. She refused him.
He wanted her. She refused him.
He had entertained her whole night.
He wanted sex. He wanted her sex.
He wanted. She didn’t. The force of his hand displaced her. The blood trickled. He slapped her again. She bleed. He wanted. He slapped her. She fell. He stepped over her and left.
Done. Shifting eyes. Mistaken, mistook. The fragmented whole is betrayed by the scarring. Third time, failed. Once wasn’t enough. So this time it won’t happen, happen again. Slipping and falling and slowly in love. Waken up. Alone. Clutching to the bed sheets, holding back the tears in the dark. Lonesome in love. Standing alone. Playing the guitar to the silent distance. Strumming and humming: shattered apart, nothing could truly fix a once broken glass heart.
Danger ahead. Disaster, beware. Misread signs lead you back to the attic. Madwoman, wild one, raging beast of passion; reaching for the stars. Midnight glistens, in the shaded eyes lies your reflection. The implications of doing are great – the risk of no action indeterminably unbearable. It remains to be a question of ultimate bravery: absolute vulnerability.
Scattered thoughts. No longer knowing what you thought you knew. Knowledge rendered obsolete. Angles varied, remains unseen. Hidden truths, revealed none. Silent thoughts curdle. The stench, unspeakable. Unspoken emotion, deeply felt.
Scattered leaves upon the field, I thought they said her name was Spring. Biting chill courses over me, into me, through me. You left me alone in the field. Your kisses were iced along my lips. Frozen.
At the end of a chapter, it is imperative that one recaps, reflects and does the math. Lessons need to be assessed as the grade impacts the narrative as it continues. Pray dear one that the story develops in a positive fashion. It would be sad to regress and loop for all eternity. The various paths of reflection confound me yet it seems that the simple matters are cleared first.
She evaluated what had happened and wrote her observations in her diary as any good researcher would.
Ill-suited. Poorly matched. Unreasonable. On the surface his lack of dress sense and ghastly shoes was a cause for great concern. His inability to be outwardly in awe of me was problematic, desperately so. How could the man I was with not worship the goddess I am? The situation was forced and unnatural. Ok, I was lazy, bored and unwilling to be alone. Or rather willing to deal with break up awkwardness. Mental note to self: awkwardness is ok.
His failure to be present with and engage with reality was the most painful. He seemed to dissociate with the world in the strangest of ways. I was caught in a web of emotion, the world kept going and I got entangled in the something that is somewhat unthinkable.
An issue of note was sex. His intellectual currency was too low to register with my libido. I could expound and detail the failures that were his and mine and circumstantial but here we are, many months past the end mark. Concluding remarks: that was interesting
