Five years. It has been five years since I last woke, and my, how things have changed. Frail. The doctors said I was too frail to stand on my own, much less walk. I’ll hear none of it. After half a decade on my back, not quite living, I open my heavy eyes then to be denied my freedom from the chains that bound me to that bed, but it’s not as if they could restrain me. It disgusts me that I must steal into the night like a thief. I do it anyway. The walls were far too familiar, their embrace was like that over an obsessive mother, suffocating and mad. It was surreal, asleep one moment and awakened to another time. Unbelievable but I cannot deny the reality that pressed down upon me, and the one that stands wearily before me now.
Finally, I’m back on Picture it and Write! and not surprisingly to those who read my stuff, this is a lengthy one. This is last week’s entry, and it gives you a peek at the other side of these magnificent structures, often romantic but seldom seen as sinister. I had fun with this one, I hope you do too!
The fluorescent bulb began its frantic flickering dance over two hours ago and was now taking a toll on my dusty eyes. Lifting my gaze up from the stacks of bills perched precariously along the edge of the desk’s age old surface. I did a full body stretch tilting the chair along with me, managing just barely not to tip it over. By the looks of it, this is the newest addition of furniture to the office in years. Fredrick gave a new meaning to frugality, and it’s beyond me how he intends to ‘start fresh’ and ‘renovate’.
An impulsive shout of laughter escaped my mouth recalling his animated speech in the lunchroom yesterday and his flat refusal to invest in a new stapler after, but I don’t care, Mrs. Uptight and Womanly wasn’t in today. I heard a rustling sound above my head. Chester, a smile crept along my lips. He was the resident time keeper, and apparently found me amusing. I wonder how many people the old coo-coo clock, perched on the topmost shelf Chester called home, had seen hunched over indecipherable handwriting that somehow managed to pass for legit receipts. Everyday I am losing faith in people, if they can’t write a darn how can I trust anyone, I’m weird that way I guess.
Without a warning there was an almighty crash outside and I ended up on the floor anyway. Gingerly, I stood up and made sure nothing seriously injured and it was no laughing matter. Little Jimmy popped a knee cap last week just by carting up a refill for the water dispenser, but then, it was widely agreed upon that ‘little’ Jimmy need to go on a diet. With everything intact I padded bare foot to the window and was greeted with great swirling clouds, dark phantoms against the twilit sky as if someone was stirring an electric concoction for a malady unknown. The impending storm came out of the blue as its often expected but there was something in the air, something other.
This is my piece for this week’s Picture it and write! entry. I wanted to write fiction on the following themes for a long time this prompt gave me an opening. It has a lot of teenage sentiments thrown in and a couple of names girls would throw around. In other words, it has a few swears in here. No F-bombs, be assured, and also one R rated scene. Be warned.
One more year. It was a chant at the back of my head that kept me moving along to the motions of the living for the past two years. High school takes a toll on everybody and it was killing me like slow poison. Labels, labels, labels. The hate was a stale perfume in the air but it gets intense when the rival cliques pass each other in the hall or the cafeteria. Jerk jocks, hulking around like they were God’s gift to us fawning women. I’d really like to think about the good parts of these people but they prove me wrong. Just one more year. Twelve months and twenty days, fourteen hours, twenty five minutes and 30 seconds, give or take a few, and counting.
I have two best friends, both of whom were guys, and as time crawled on I learned it wasn’t something that was very common these days unless you were a tomboy which I suppose I was but not in the strictest sense, or if you were gay. The other kids call me names I don’t care for, Don and Patch were just friends. We would all laugh about it at the end of the day, it’s something you learn to live with and it’s not that hard once you know yourself but I came a long way from the insecure girl I once was, the world was way scarier then.
I was in the locker room washing off from tennis practice. I stepped out of the shower and reached for my towel. I wasn’t alone as I thought I was. I hurried up and dried off, not wanting anyone to see my nakedness and make use of some snarky comment they no doubt practiced a hundred times in their little heads. I grabbed my things but my glasses were clouding up with the steam and by the time I got them reasonably clear I realized I was heading in the wrong direction.
The door was on the opposite side of the room, I was moving to the source of the soft sounds. I’m sure I would regret this later but I peeked around the last row of lockers. Well, I’ll be damned. I spied with my two foggy eyes Continue reading
After staring at this photo for the most of the week, my mind (more like Favashi, in the background) chased inspiration since I was still thinking at the pace of honey on a hot day. So here’s my little piece for Ermilia’s Picture it and Write! photo prompts!
I had been furious with myself for the past few months. I’d made a rash decision and cut my long, brown hair half its original length. I was to be blamed but good friends are what they are, super nice people, who break the truth to you as it is with no chocolate frosting on top even when it’s the last thing I wanted to hear. The few close ones I can really say I have do come through for me. Like now, Clyve’s fingers were working their magic on my head, ‘finishing touches’ I was informed five minutes ago were in progress, but that was right before he started all over again.
“Mmm … well this is the best I can do. It doesn’t look bad at all when you put it up like this,” he finally said. I heard a sharp snap and he spun me around in his chair and showed me the French braid on his phone. “But I’m still mad at you for not coming to me first,” he whined and sounded more than a little hurt.
“I’m sorry, okay? Like I said, it was a stupid thing to do and I will regret it for the rest of my life but I know you would be a darling to fix me up,” I fluttered my lashes over a sincere smile, “I really like what you’ve done with it.”
“Aw well, it’s nothing,” he gestured with his graceful hands, mollified, “I’m closing up for lunch in a few, what say we grab something at Subway’s?” Clyve asked as he loosened the Velcro on the polka dot cape around my neck. I nodded and picked up my tiny cup of tea on the counter.
My eyes wondered over to the man who just came in. Blackest hair I’ve ever seen on a blue eyed guy, suffice to say he was easy on the eyes. I chewed on my bottom lip as a feeling of déjà vu sneaked itself up in my mind. Continue reading
This is my bit for last week’s Picture It and Write! photo challenge brought to you by Ermilia Blog. I’ve read some very well written entries for this one and most were tragic in one way or another, the photo surely inspires such trains of thought but my mind tends to veer in the other direction. Shall we follow and see where it leads?
They say around, the way you’ve asked for me. There’s even talk of you wanting me … I need to know, oh baby girl, I need to know … wondering if you’re gonna take me there … it’s getting harder not to think of you … If it’s true don’t leave me alone out here … tell me what you’re feeling … I need to know … I need to know … I need to know … … …
The Latino beats were ripples in my blood, growing into giant waves of a jittery high that crashed inside me as I moved in time, as my limbs interpreted the lively, seductive rhythm. The music, the dance, the heat of it. It was like a fever in my veins but I was going to out scorch it, I’ll be damned if I didn’t. My skin was slick with exertion, breaths left and entered my lips in sharp rushed bursts. I felt on fire as I twirled on the tips of my toes in my ballet pumps, my shoulders got into it, my arms had a mind of their own. I conjured him here with me, my shadow prince in my dreams. His handsome features hidden under a mask of midnight, how I longed to see beneath it.
I threw my head back, eyes closed, as the blare of the trumpets swept me away, my hips swayed with the delicious spicy beats. I imagine his hand closing around my waist, the other one taking possession of my wrist pulling me closer and away. I grit my teeth as I stepped up my pace. Feeling more that a bit wanton in this snatched moment, no rules, no delicate movements here like what was demanded of me in the studio, but still graceful as the Black Swan. My body was free, mine to manipulate.
“Marie? Are you still up?” my mother called from the front door. Crap. I came to a halt. He faded once again to nothingness, smoke chased away by the cold wind of reality that strode in after the woman who insisted on its constant presence. I hurried over to cut Mark Anthony off in the middle of the chorus in time to hear her keys drop with a feint clatter in the bowl on the coffee table. She didn’t consider this music of quality. I love Mozart and his lot, don’t get me wrong, but tame music all the day long never did a body any good. I wonder, though, if Mark was loud enough for her to have heard him.
This is my piece for last week’s Picture It and Write! entry.
He stumbled backwards in haste before tripping on the extra long lab coat in an attempt to remove himself as far has he could from the giant glass tube in front of him. Under the relative safety of the desk the only disturbance in the air was his uneven breathing and the distant hiss, a result of the process now in progress which he had initialized after hitting the orange button on his way to hiding. A last resort, which meant this wing of the building was now on lock-down.
The little man sat there curled into a ball, dreading the outcome of the experiment. It was no use thinking that he knew it would have gone downhill after the second stage, the commander didn’t care. He wanted it done and he’d wanted it done fast. The bastard’s getting it alright, but not as they’d planned. Gathering up whatever traces of courage that was left, he chanced a peek. The woman, Lannie Jessup, was plastered against the glass in a thick viscous layer of steadily drying goo, it clung to her like the second skin it was, sparing no dip or curve. Trapped before she could have escaped and wrapped those long strong fingers around his scrawny neck.
This is my bit for last week’s entry for Picture It and Write! photo prompts brought to you every week by the girls, Ermisenda and Elizabeth, at Ermilia Blog. Be warned: this can get pretty long and it takes a little while to see where the photo plays in. Nope. I lied. You see, you have to read to the very end to find it out! Bwahahahaha! I am so eeevile
… twenty five years old … frequents top class bars … twice divorced, no children … the new face of Cover Girl … net worth of … an very private individual …
The lights didn’t come from bulbs but from the small sea of rectangular monitors that cluttered every available surface in my personal bat cave. There were no outlets for lamps or light bulbs at all, and this was the way I preferred it, surrounded only by the continuous stream of back lit information flickering across the screens. I reread what I had so far as I sucked on the cherry passion flavoured lollypop. My current case was a rather strange one on two counts. I let my fingers dance a complicated foxtrot over the keys and waited for the search to be completed.
Turning my focus on another monitor, I leaned back and reclined a bit and the wheels of the soft black leather chair complied easily enough rolling back allowing me to stretch my feet and rest them on the desk. Ankles crossed before the flexible scrolled neon keyboard. It’s been a one of those days so I’ll soak in the blizzard of blinking of tiny reds, blues, greens and oranges for a while.
The first was that the voluptuous darkish blond of my attentions before me happened to be a model. French. I knew this one. I can’t say why, but before looking her up for the first time years ago I could see something Frenchy about the beauty but I couldn’t, for the life of me, with any amount of certainty say what exactly gave me the impression. Now I’m tasked to dig a lot deeper than my previous curiosity had warranted then. Point is, my usual characters extended from petty thieves, ambitious prostitutes, to corporate spies, and more lately international criminals.
Here’s my piece for the other week’s Ermilia Blog’s Picture It! and Write photo prompts. I hope you like it.
I sat cross legged on the comfy old couch, the still resilient cushions sag a little under the memories of the worries and joys it’s past owners had confided in its warm welcoming embrace. Perhaps mine will be added to the burden of the emotions it so silently carries without much complain. What I felt now, as I curl up with my knees held tightly to my chest, was hurt mixed with confusion and betrayal. I had to get past this. I can’t ignore it any longer, because if I want to put this nightmare behind be I have to face it. I rocked back and forth a few times before I made up my mind completely, unfolded myself and reached under the couch, feeling around for the pouch I hid in the upholstery.
My had returned with a plain looking leather scroll purse, nothing special about it other than it had to be unrolled. My fingers ran over the spots where it began to peel, released the clasp and watched it unfurl. I unzipped the zipper that ran along its length, my hands were shaking as I eyed my progress like if its contents would sprout poisonous fangs … it came close. My breath caught as it always had when the black pure velvet lining reveals itself, with the small sparkly diamonds cascading until they come rest silently. Arrogantly. Beautifully. Coldly.
“Mathew! Oh, why do I even say it?” Clang! went the frying pan on the burner. Just like that the room got tense.
I got serious then, contemplating her over the rim of my glass of 5% real orange juice. Her hair had escaped her hasty bun, chestnut tendrils of it stuck to her damp forehead and the nape of her neck as she whipped the eggs around in the pan, a fury of clangs and bangs. Her face was grim and coated in her special shade of reddish pink, a sign of change of her capricious mood.
We both lay beside each other in contented silence, backs on the sun warmed tier boards. Her eyes to the sky and the sky in her eyes. Mine were on her. They couldn’t help themselves as her flaming coppery locks stirred lazily by the cool salty breeze. Not for the first time I wondered, but I dare not ask, why me. I was nothing special, anything but. Paperboy in the dawn shivering my behind off in the biting morning mist, community collage during the day and gas station attendant at night.
Not enough sleep but I had to scrap what I can to save up. So that I could run. Run away from the sneering privileged clowns who feel as if they own the very dirt you walk on because their daddies were rich. Run away from the indignity of being born of … of … I swallowed, no I mustn’t go there. Time with this stunning, living, breathing enigma was to be treasured, not be wasted on dark, useless thoughts. She was my enigma, no on else’s, I smiled to myself. A secret I held close to my heart. But then she had secrets of her own as well, one of them I came close to understanding this very morning, the discovery chilled me to the tips of my toes.