- Monday Night Rebirth
People can change you; it can be for the best, or the worst. They can tear you apart, turning you inside out until you don’t know what is up or down. Strange stomach tingles causing fleeting fears, reaching out to grab hold of the person you once were. No matter how high you jump or how deep you dig, you can never get them back. Their shadow no longer plays dot to dot with your own body. Misshapen outlines and bumpy pillows bend you out of shape; its uncomfortable. Smooth out the lines and fill up that cup that you though was half empty because it is easier to re-build yourself than to continuously tear yourself down to what you used to be. Bear no malice to the people; take a sip from the pool of life and grow.
They went out and bought a bottle of wine each. Both were white, but they were different kinds. Just like the two of them; not that they were both white, they were just similar with something that set them apart. Everyone could see it but no one could figure out said different. Nicki had a Pinot, sitting on her desk; Poppy had her Sauvignon Blanc chilling in the fridge. It was the first week of school and they already felt the need for a bottle each.
That was the plan for that day, enjoy the wine, maybe get a little drunk after doing some work, after writing a story or reading a book. At 4pm, the drinking started, Poppy was disappointed with the Sauvignon; at 6% it did very little to satisfy the alcoholic craving that settled in her stomach. All summer, Poppy drank. She never got drunk, she just got continuously drank. Whether is was wine, beer or hard liquor, she drowned in it, trying to cure something that caused an ache inside. Poppy was lost, the constant change in her life throwing her off balance.
Poppy watched the clock, the big hand slowly making its way towards the 12. The minute hand ticks, ticks, ticks. The wine calls to her from the fridge. 3’o’clock, 4’o’clock, 5’o’clock. Late enough to drink, but not early enough to suggest that she did indeed have a problem. The first bottle went down easily, so smooth and so soothing; quenching the raging fire. Nicki looked on, from the corner of her eye. She knew that something was different. Something settled over the room from the moment Poppy pressed the bottle to her lips.
“Did you hear about Mark? He lost his virginity over the summer, but get this, it was at a gay strip bar and it was to a male stripper!”
News like this would normally excite Poppy, but her small smile and acknowledging eye brows raised was a red flag to Nicki. She sat on her bed as she watched Poppy drown. Her skin began to grey, her eyes began to dull. Poppy was slowly slipping into an old black and white movie and Nicki sat back and watched. The mood of the room changed as soon as Poppy went to grab hold of the second bottle. It wasn’t even cold but she wanted it in her hands. Nicki watched like a hawk, her frown deepening, as Poppy took long pulls from the warm bottle. Poppy had made it through half the bottle before Nicki snapped.
“What the hell is going on with you?” She questioned, grabbing the bottle from clammy hands. Poppy looked dazed, her drink finally lulling her into a numbed state.
“Nothing.” Poppy almost slurred, standing from her fetal position. She wobbled slightly as she stood, but she wasn’t drunk.
“You rarely smile, you’re constantly drinking and you look like shit.” Nicki shouted, waving the wine bottle to emphasize her point.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Poppy said, moving to take the bottle from Nicki.
“The hell you don’t. Something happened over the summer. What is it?” Nicki said, putting the bottle on her desk. She noticed how Poppy didn’t take her eyes off the bottle as she moved.
“Nothing happened. I’m just bored.” Poppy said going to reach for the bottle again. She grabbed it, bringing it to her lips and managed to take a few sips before Nicki knocked it out of her hands, spilling the sweet wine all over her face and chest.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Poppy cried, catching drops from her chest and pressing them to her lips.
“Knock it off Poppy!” Nicki said, hitting her hands away.
“ You can’t tell me what to do!” Poppy cried, tears beginning to drip from her eyes. She wanted to be left alone with her drink and that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Not the Nicki around.
In an act of desperation, Poppy threw herself at the bottle on the floor, praying that there were a few ounces left. Nicki dived after her. There was a smash. The bottle broke underneath the weight of Nicki’s falling hand. Nicki cried out, pain shooting through her palm. Pulling her hand away, she pulled out a large piece of glass. Poppy continued to scrounge finding a last drop of wine. She snapped.
Grabbing the large piece of the wine bottle, she picked it up and plunged it into her friend’s neck. Now everyone would see the difference between the two girls. One had fallen over the edge. People would talk about it for years.
The situation fell upon the girls, and they held each other as they came to realization. Nicki held Poppy close, her body starting to sag in her arms. Blood poured over the glass lodged in her neck, eyes wide as she gasped for breath. A bloody hand reached up to caress Nicki’s face, leaving a trail along her right cheek, and then the hand fell to the floor.
Plums fury and squishy beneath tender words. Lemons hard and cold beneath baby soft fingers. I find myself covered in sour, juicy lemons.
My large and hard liquid bottle, filled with cleansing lemons.
The black freezer box, living under my bed, holds mu juice, taking my hair from dull yellow to shiny bright blonde.
My life box, hot and cracked, tastes deliciously sour but a hot melting lemon…
Well, we don’t need to express feminine willies then it is already so hot outside.
It was like going there was going to prove something to me. As if the yellow sand, turquoise sea and blue sky would revive my faith. This was real life not some fairy-tale that made all your dreams come true. But as soon as I saw the pure sand, the sun beaming so bright it made the water glow; I felt what true happiness is like. The atmosphere was so warm, so perfect it felt unreal. I came to the beach to restore my faith in love, to be the cheesy romantic cliché. But I had no one to experience this with. I was on a field trip. So we did what any bunch of college students would do. We went crazy. We ran, we played, we laughed and of course we buried someone in the sand. It was great fun. But I still didn’t feel as if I accomplished my goal.
But then I just stopped and thought for a moment. What I was feeling in that moment wasn’t a romantic love; but it was love. It was the love of experiencing a something that I will cherish forever with new friends that buried their way into my heart.
Wow, the beach really does turn everything in to a cheesy cliché.
- Summer’s End
She was as sassy as a storm in the middle of summer. She was seductive in every way, from the way she licked her lips to the way she flipped her golden hair. Her blue eyes twinkled with her dreams for the future, dreams of stardom and adventure.
Those eyes, now stormy blue gazed black up at me, those longing dreams lost with the end of summer.
The floor was slippery from the aftermath. Summer had never been so seductive in my eyes. Even after her departure she was still as sassy as ever.
It was one stormy night, while the floor was still slippery; I took Summer in a sexual manner, penetrating deep into her body and mind. She was cold and stormy. Just the way I liked them. As much as I loved Summer, I hated Summer. I preferred her hard and cold. Like Winter, now she was a sexual experience.
I was out one day when I saw someone wishing for Spring. Then I knew I had to throw Summer away. I gathered what was left and stuffed her into a bag. Walking into the forest, I placed her on the ground among the impulsive pieces of Spring. Kissing the tips of the fingers, I placed them on Summer’s bag before whispering “Goodnight.”
Once…I stabbed a pig.
They say, stabbing a pig is the closest you can get to stabbing a human.
Of course, it’s not everyday you find a dead pig,
So, I went for a wonder in a field one evening.
That’s when I got my first taste of blood…literally.
I stabbed that pig, so hard blood spurted into my mouth.
It was squelchy and harder to cut into than I thought,
But I did it.
- Seven Suicides
I spy with my little eye, Something fleeting in the sky. A painful hook or a playful glance, slowly loosing the song and dance.
Once they flew, strong and high. Now temptation so sweet as lye. Blackness comes with such a fright, as we are blinded by the sight.
Sun sets on a dusky day, not longer wanting to play. Heavy hearts beat down on the ground, the banging beat hitting sans sound.
It drips red, hard and fast, each drop fading sights from our past. Sinking until low until no go, distant memories from long ago.
We dream the dream and dreamers keep. A secret so absurd no one can seek. Hard blown, a future beaten, such a feat, we see ourselves cheaten.
The reaper creeps, but no one he keeps with his pointy blade. The sun sets silent, no less violent that the lives we’ve lived.
Find some marbles,
Throw them away,
Try to live another day.
You start the game,
That’s full of pain,
Run into the arms of flame.
The keeper creeps into your soul,
Say goodbye to the last control.
Clock starts ticking,
Sweat starts dripping,
Panic sets in,
You’re thrown into the spin.
Shadows slink out of the shadows,
Fare well to hallows.
Men of brittle bone,
Defend yourself, with only stone.
Claws will scratch you,
Death with catch you,
Run as fast as you can.
Find some marbles,
Throw them away,
Try to live another day.
- Dead Man Walking
The Queen herself sent the order, quick. How one simple man managed to capture the attention of our fair Queen, is quizzical. We all gathered, quaking with the question of what was about to happen. Would it be fast or would it be slow? No two perish the same way. A queer splendor took hold as the procession began. Words were spoken and shouts from the crowd contributed to the rising glee. Two unhappy faces I saw from my place in the back. One about to die, the other, the one I really came to see; the executioner. He told me to never come; he didn’t want me to see him this way. But it was the only chance I got to admire his beauty without causing him further damnation. His face marred with the sorrow of what he was about to do. The leaver was pulled and the dead man started to hang. But my eyes stayed on the garroter; watching the light leaving his already faded eyes. I cared not for the man hanging, but for my lover who was slowly dying, day by day and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I feared I had lost him forever.
- Wisdom, Weaving and Strategy
Left to weave the pieces of my soul together. But the break was not painful; therefore does this mean that I have no soul to break? To weave is to stitch the wounds on my face back together. But I have no string; therefore does this mean I have no wounds to seal? To stitch is to mend the memories tainted by black. But there is only white; therefore does this mean that I have no memories to revive. So I must be an empty vessel. Try to weave me back together. I dare you.
- The Airport in November
Lots of people.
Give a little thought and it makes sense.
Now they do not make sense.
Some for obvious reasons, but…
It is not a holiday,
There is nothing special about this time.
Random in fact.
Irresponsible some might say.
Did I do it? Most defiantly.
But I was a lot smarter than these kids today…
“All members of Club, Club world, Business, Gold, Silver, Bronze, Ruby and Sapphire…may now being boarding.”
Remember that one time,
I flew in first class?
It was awesome.
Three little girls…all in matching pink, panda track suits. Brilliant.
Oh smell of airport,
You make me feel so,
Your fumes cause a headache and you smell causes a queeze.
You would think, seeing as this is my 7th time here, you would be kinder, considering my travel illness.
Now I truly understand what kind of relationship we have.
You win. Well played.
- Feather Breath
The fairies looked like stone features in an overgrown garden, freezing for every giant in sight. Apart from me. It’s because I listened. When they first arrived at the bottom of my garden, I would try to entice them out with my tiny tea parties. But all I would see was the tiny stone figures, small enough to ride a mouse. Every day I would venture down my garden path into the overgrown weeds to try and talk to the fairies. But there they would stay, frozen, but in a different position than before. One night I heard a tinkling at my window. There was four figures peering in, so small I would have missed them if it were not for all my wishing. Opening the window I let them in, watching the small glowing balls fly past me. Sitting silently on my bed, we stared, as if they were just as fascinated as I. Suddenly another tinkling noise. They were talking to me but they were so small the words didn’t make sense. Astonishment swept over me like the small wisp of her wings as she flew to my ear. That’s when I heard the first feather breath of a fairy.
- DeafShe didn’t know how long she could take it. The constant squealing and screeching pierced inside her ears and rattled around in her brain. There wasn’t anything she could do. Nothing rational at least. After all, is there anything rational about ripping your own ears off just because of someones annoying laugher? All day long she heard it. In the classroom, in the hallways, in the bathroom and even through the walls in her room. Just like a metronome tick to and fro or the ticking of a clock, it was a noise that would drive even the most sane, slightly mad. It was her destruction and there was no escaping it.
As she looked into the mirror and took in the deep shadows under her eyes from loosing sleep, her sickly pale face and her dull and lifeless eyes, she knew she had no other choice. She walked into class like any other day. She sat down in her seat like any other day. Her classmates settled down around her. The clock ticked and ticked and ticked. And then the laughter. She pulled out her pistol and it went BANG, BANG. Screams rang out as the blood ran down. Tears of red on many faces. And of course, the brain matter that now painted the white walls. She waited, waited for the blissful silence to wash over her like a breath of fresh air. She waited and waited, calmly sat next to the cooling corpse slumped next to her. But it never came. She could still hear the laughter. It wasn’t ever going to stop. So she did the most rational thing she could think of. She put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger Yet the laughter never stopped. After all, how could a deaf girl hear laughter in the first place?
- Split EndsHer fingers were hard and broken from washing and cutting and perming and dying and curling and shaving hair all day long. And it was a long day. She had learnt to shut out the constant babble of whoever sat in her chair. Everyone who placed themselves in front of her mirror felt the need to share their deepest darkest secrets as if she was some super human being who not only cared to know but wouldn’t say anything afterwards.
The final customer of the day finally arrived and she was just praying to get through it without knowing about some ones dirty laundry. A woman, middle aged, not too much older than she, walked in and sat down in the chair. She had chestnut brown hair which reached the middle of her back; she wanted it cut down to her shoulders.
“This new guy I’ve been seeing, he’s a fan of short hair. Around the length of yours actually” she said.
The hairdresser looked at her reflection in the mirror, her always perfectly tailored hair resting lightly on her shoulders.
“My husband likes my hair long so I’m sure he’ll get a shock later on tonight,” the woman giggled, flashing her too big wedding band.
Here we go again, the hairdresser thought as she sprayed water all over the woman’s locks. Adultery was often a common topic at her station.
“But my new fellow, James, he works in advertising; says he’s going to put me in one of his commercials.”
“That’s nice” said the hairdresser as she grabbed her comb and scissors, getting ready to start.
“I just wished he would leave his wife. He’s so bored by her but can’t seem to leave because of the children. Maybe you know her, she’s a hairdresser too.”
“What’s her name?” The hairdresser replied as she began cutting the ends of her hair.
Lucy’s hands froze mid-cut. Her husband Jimmy had just gotten a new job in advertising.
“No, I don’t know her.” Lucy replied as she carefully put down the scissors.
“That’s a shame. I would have liked to have known what she’s like.”
Lucy nodded, picking up the straight razor. Pulling the woman’s head back, she placed the razor at the root of her head and dug in, sawing along into her scalp. The woman screamed struggling in her seat as blood began to drip down her face, pooling in her mouth.
Once the scalp was completely removed, Lucy calmly put down the blood cloaked razor and walked out the door, scalp still in hand.
She had been walking for an hour before the police caught up with her. She had blood splattered on her face, hands soaked in gore. Somewhere along the way, she had lost the scalp. Without struggle she was placed in the back of the car and driven away. Unfortunately they still can’t find the scalp.
- Untitled Poem
Security was hard to come by. He had it.
Taunting whispers tease fingertips, which grasp softly at Comforts bosom.
A downward spiral, wanting, reaching, clanging down the iron banister.
SMASH! His ghost of three faces taking turns to haunt his unexpecting audience.
No one likes a carousel, yet here we are spinning in circles,
Until someone flies off and crashes to the ground
Racing in a swimming pool of salt, rubbing the wounds of the fall
Dancing in naked chains under the blazing moonlight of superstition.
Purple pendent dangles diagonally from his neck
Each pull of breath squeezing it tighter and tighter.
Stormy nights sooth Hysteria so that he may sleep to the sound of his own drum.
Yellow light vs. blue light, the irony goes noticed or unnoticed or completely disregarded because what does it matter if the light is Orange or Green.
Being a drunk does a poet not make,
Being a poet does make you a drunk, He thought as that familiar pop and glucking, berries and red grapes fill his mouth, belly and mind.
Wine tastes of home, memories flood his mouth, and nostalgia pours from his eyes, sobbing in the expensive forgotten fruits that pour to the ground from a limp grip.
Nightmares and night terrors and night creatures excite the second ghost within.
Building to the brink to the bright moon.
Soft pillows of feathered apples catch his fall.
A new moon rises and with it, his spirit sores so high that nothing can bring him down. Not even the broken feet of the purple pendant.
He flies, until he’s dropped into a pool of calm blue excitement and happiness.
Hope, the feeling won’t melt away.
Because security was hard to come by. But he might have finally found it.
- The Glass Mermaid
Once there was a mermaid who would wander the sea by day and explore the land by night. She wasn’t beautiful; quite ugly by any standards. Often compared to the appearance of Sin, she was cast aside by her family and friends. All because of her glass eye. It was purple and too big for her face, striking in contrast with her other squinty green eye, which could have been considered pretty, had it not been placed at an angle on her face. However, the rest of her appearance did nothing to flatter her already faulty being. Her long black hair was ratty, no matter how much she tried to comb it out. Her tail was so dark, almost inky. She was considered the black sheep of the family. Her one redeeming quality was the strange way her tail shimmered as she swam; akin to the light on a bright day hitting the ocean. But most are often too blind to notice the beauty.
The desperation to find someone who was willing to look at her; someone who wouldn’t turn away in disgust, fuelled each day and night, flittering from place to place; moving between her world and ours.
One night, after a day of drifting, lonely and cold, she shook off her tail and headed up the sandy beach. A rock housed her secret clothing and sheltered her from the wicked wind. But unfortunately for her, before she could reach her blankets of safety, she was spotted by a group of men considered even uglier than she. They had been watching from afar and had witness her detestable transformation up the shore. They crept up behind her naked body; the dark of night hiding them from her already unfocused glass eye. Hideous thoughts highlighted their eyes as the moon revealed their presence.
At last she had found someone who would look at her. As she faced the clouded night sky, with the men gazing at her from above, she made peace with the consequence of wanting a little attention. Once they were done, they picked up her tired and weak body, carrying her a short distance before dumping her in the boot of a car. They travelled long and hard; she constantly felt the hum of the engine beneath her naked flesh. It must have been days before she finally saw light, glorious and warming, before it was taken away again. A bag was thrown over her head, her hands and feet were bound together. No matter how hard she struggled, strong hands constantly kept her locked in place, the rough rope digging into her fragile skin. The ticking time bomb in her head slowly counted the seconds to insanity. How fitting she would perish with a bag over her head. Even in death she would be too deformed to look at.
But just before she reached the brink of delirium, her bounds were untied, the bag was lifted and she was dropped into a large glass box of water. Water; sweet relief for her dry and flaky skin. As her tail once again took form, almost painfully, her glass eye looked out onto hundreds of faces; some faces filled with disgust, some filled with amusement. But all the faces, no matter what the expression, were looking at her. For once in her life, no one was turning away. Flashes reflected around, bright lights blinding. Children pressed their innocent faces to the glass, eyes wide in wonder. Men and women pointed and stared. It was all she had ever thought she wanted, but she was trapped. Trapped in a box of glass just like that which highlighted her ugliness.