1
6 0 6

A six petal rose

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought wryly. If someone was filming , they could make a straight-to-tv, midday movie from this tripe. With a smile, he shook his head slightly and pulled the first petal from the long-stemmed rose in his hand. It was a yellow rose, chosen not because of preference for colour, but because it was wilting and had been marked down for quick sale at the florist. Frugality was not a part of it either, he had simply chosen not to waste a healthy rose on what he was about to do.

He was looking out over the ocean from a cliff edge high above the frothy white  mess of wave meeting rock. It was a long drive to get here, but the location had come instantly to mind the moment he decided what he was going to do. Isolated, unblemished by human touch, and windy enough to let nature bite him while he admired her beauty.

He placed the rose petal on his upturned fingertips and stretched his arm out over the edge. An up-draft from the sea below quickly grabbed the petal from his hand and carried it out toward the horizon.

“She loves me.”

First contact, shy smiles. Eyes meeting in glances of ever-increasing length. Cheeky grins, playful jests, fingertips stretched to touch for the want of touching. …


The second petal came away from the flower, he thought it offered more resistance than the first, but it was captured by the ocean breeze just as readily.

“She loves me not.”

First cracks, fears spoken. Worries planted, differences sprouting. Words recited, well meaning, true meaning, hands still held for want of gripping. …

The first petal was lost to his eye now and the second yellow fragment had fallen straight to slide and tumble its way down the cliff face toward the water. A third petal sat on his outstretched hand, moving in circles, caught in an eddy above his palm. He blew toward it until it began to fall.

“She loves me.”

Flowers blooming, smiles warming. Fingers clasped when not running through hair. Laughter resounding, hot breath on bare necks. Heart stopping words whispered in ears tensed and waiting …

He had closed his eyes and was smiling, arm straight out in front of him as the wind grabbed his hair and flapped the folds of his long sleeved t-shirt.  Without opening his eyes, he plucked another petal from the remnants of the yellow rose. He felt the the wind lift it from his fingertips.

“She loves me not.”

Panic growing, worries taking root in fertile soil. Soft skin flinches from attempts to touch. Words spoken, by rote, meaning lost to repetition. Labels used for sake of labels. …

His eyes were closed and arm still outstretched, but the corners of his mouth had fallen with the last petal, leaving his lips compressed in a thin line. His arm fell slowly to his side and he looked down in time to see the yellow petal’s flight brought down violently in the a puff of sea spray. Only two wind-crumpled petals remained on the rose, and that soon became one when his fingers deftly plucked another.

“She loves me.”

Perfection. Uttered in disbelieving gasps of simultaneous ecstasy. Lucky, blessed, gifted, and loved. A warming connection even when hearts met distance. Perfection, lived and believed. …

He was smiling again, but his eyes were open now and the lack of light in them gave away his smile’s lie. Gaze fixed on the final petal struggling to remain attached to the decrepit rose, he tossed the entire thing over the edge, watching it plummet toward the rocks below.

“She loves me not.”

Distance manufactured, voices muted, whispers silenced. Cracks sprouting forests, words spoken known for lies, worries carpeting fields of green, brown now from lack of light. Drop outs, drop off, drop. …

“She loved me not.”

His face had split into a delirious rictus as he looked at his empty palms. He shifted his gaze to the female body at his feet.

“The flower says you loved me not.”

He kicked the corpse from the ledge and dived off the cliff before the body was halfway to the rocks below.

2
1 0 1

The Loss to Legend

(Prompt: Kate Zueva by cbyn, via writeworld.)

It was my fault that I lost her, really.

All of my poetry went wrong somehow. Rather than see her lips, I saw the color of the practiced paint. Rather than the fine lines of her neck, I saw the lack the jewelry and felt so ashamed. I saw right through her dress - not to her skin, but to the secret that some seamstress captured. I didn't even see her eyes - not the color, not the shape, not what even saw she saw.

I never met her eyes. I never wanted to. It would have shattered the illusion.

Instead, I saw the fury in her brows. I saw the outrage on her spitting tongue. I felt the passion of her pressure on my old assumptions. She moved me, but it wasn't the destination that impressed me - I was in love with being moved. For all of her fire, for every wonderful idea, I didn't hear a word. I didn't learn a thing. I didn't grow, except for carnal inches and the height of my nose.

I never met her principles, either. I never really tried. Believing is so much easier than effort.

I painted her in the subtle light of everything I needed her to be.

Then I congratulated myself for my enlightenment. How sad.

We could have fucked. We could have fought.

We could have really met.

0
1 0 1

Iris

(Prompt: Drawing Board by thebrokenview, via writeworld)

There is an aftermath to all creations. Pencils shave down to the nubs. Erasers disintegrate.

Everything we once needed is either used up or will remain unused. Isn't that sad?

That's how I thought of Iris. She's leftover construction paper, safety scissors for the all grown up. She's got child eyes, wet and bright and big. She's got kid lips, too quick to smile too wide. She's everything you ever wanted in the bestest of best friends. Of course you love Iris.

Then you grow up.

Maybe you've got a use for her, but grown-up kinds of art looks wrong on top of her.

You'll ruin her.

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

It says something about me that I see girls in all the ruins and the leftovers...

2
0 0 0

Territorial

            I hit him hard and he went down. I didn’t see his buddy coming at my blindside, but his buddy didn’t see mine either and he went down too, Don standing over him with his fists ready for more, but the fight had gone out of them. I shook the crack out of my knuckle and watched the guy crawl away and there was a sort of grim satisfaction in it as Don and I walked away from the bar, knowing we’d done a good thing.

            We ran into trouble like Scooby Doo ran into mysteries whenever I came to D.C.; we didn’t look for it, it just sort of happened around us. As the adrenaline started to wear off, I could feel just how bad of a hangover I’d have the next morning. I wondered how he was feeling but I didn’t ask.

            “Can’t take you anywhere,” he said after a few blocks of walking straight on, no place in mind. His girlfriend was gone for the weekend and I was on leave and we had nothing better to do but go out. It was Memorial Day weekend. I guess D.C. wasn’t the best place for me to go, trying to get away from Marines and soldiers. We couldn’t walk half a block without seeing someone in uniform or waving a flag or thanking Don for his service. His hair was shorter, more militant than mine, and maybe he just looked more the part. He walked taller, stood straighter than I did and he’d always had an honest look about him. I never could figure why, but I always admired Don. I wouldn’t say he had any traits or qualities that I didn’t, and God, he was ugly as a mule, but for some reason I always felt like he just had something I didn’t.

 

            And then I realized what it was. Don had conviction. Not really for any one thing. He wasn’t religious. He wasn’t politically inclined. He just had a sense of… sureness about what he believed, even if it wasn’t much. He knew who he was, he knew how he felt and what he wanted. He was good to his girlfriend. He was a good son and a good soldier. He was the best friend I could ask for, and I didn’t know exactly why, but just then I was more grateful for him than I’d ever been as he smiled and pushed me off the sidewalk and I pushed him back.

            “Let’s go home,” he said, “I’m too drunk for this shit.”

1
0 0 0

Chroma

Somewhere in the world the sun is shining magnificently amid blue, cloudless skies as birds chirp morning lullabies and downstairs a loving mother is preparing her daughter’s breakfast.

But not here.

Here the the sun is bleak, the sky is gray, and the birds are dead. For motherless Saff, who is still desperately clinging to her last shards of sleep, it would be a typical morning if she wasn’t being prematurely roused from her slumber by the glorious racket of frantic yelling and slamming doors.

“Where the hell is she?”

“Who?”

“Rose, dammit!”

“What’s going on?”

“Rose is missing!”

“Missing? What do you mean she’s missing? Shit!”

“Where’s Saff? Somebody find Saff…”

I’m dead, she mutters to herself, pulling the bed sheets over her face in hopes that they’ll pass as an invisibility cloak. She flips over to her other shoulder to face the wall and groans. The bed isn’t comfortable at all. She hasn’t had a full night’s rest all week and this, this isn’t help—

The door opens and the room is suddenly flooded with light. Great.

“If you touch me,” Saff warns icily, “I will punch you in the face and then step over you to take my morning piss. Don’t test me. I am not getting out of this bed until my alarm goes off and I’ve hit the snooze button at least three times. So do me a favor, and get out.”

“Saff, we’ve got a problem.” It’s Luvine. “Rose is missing.”

“Yeah. I heard. Are you sure she’s actually missing, though? Not just playing hide and seek? Or taking a Dungeon break downstairs?” After all, the Dungeon, the unofficial name for the ‘quiet room’ of the building, is the best place to be if you’re not trying to be found.

“We checked everything already. She’s not in the building. Besides, her room is completely clear. All her stuff is gone.”

“Wow, seriously?” Saff can’t help but be impressed. “Huh. I didn’t think she’d ever have the guts. I can’t believe you guys are actually surprised, though. I thought it was obvious that she wasn’t cut out for this.”

“Well, we still have to find her!” Luvine snaps, annoyed. She’s not very fond of being disrespected.

Saff rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “It can wait, Luv. I promise, it’ll be fine. But please, just let me—”

The alarm clock sirens.

“NO! I am not ready to start my day!” she screams, throwing the pillow over her head.

“Saff?”It’s a new voice now, from the doorway, masculine but gentle, and almost fearful. She recognizes it immediately, and the rage melts. “Scarlet just called together an emergency meeting. We’re all waiting for you in the Commons.”

Of course they are. In a situation like this, nothing is going to get settled without every member present. “Fine!” she says, exasperated. She’s out of time to stall the commencement of her day. “I’m up, Terrence. I’m up. I’ll be down in eight minutes, okay? Are you people happy now?”

“Thanks,” Terrence says. She can hear his footsteps retreating down the hall. She almost feels bad for being short with him, but she’s sure he won’t take it personally. By now, nearly everyone has adapted to the fact that she’s a bitch in the morning.

And the afternoon. And the evening.

“For the record, Luvine, I can feel you glaring at me. Seriously, your eyes are like lasers and I’m breaking a sweat right now.”

“If I leave you’ll just go back to sleep,” she says.

“Maybe. But if you stay, that means when I roll over, your face will be the first thing I see for the day. Now, I’m not superstitious, but waking up to an angry black woman? I’m pretty sure that’s bad luck and a telltale sign of a shitty day in the making. I’d like to avoid that. Also, I’m kind of…well, naked.”

“You sleep nude?” There it is; she can hear the smirk in Luvine’s voice. No one can ever keep up the Big Bad Wolf front around her for long.

“Very,” she says, laughing. “Now please, a little privacy? If I’m not out in six minutes you have permission to grab me by the hair and drag me to Commons. Fair enough?”

“Fine.” Luvine gets up and walks to the door. “Five minutes or six?”

“Six. I don’t like odd numbers.”

 

*

“Alright. I’m up way before my prime, and Rosalina supposedly is ‘missing’. Would anyone care to explain to me why I should care about this at all?”

The Commons, in which they are presently gathered, is a wide room with walls the color of green tea (with no milk or sugar added). On the left wall is a trio of windows that offer the onlooker a crystal view of city traffic and buildings yet to be struck by the riots that began after the initial outbreaks. Saff remembers the mania that consumed the public when wind of The Fever first hit major news outlets. It was all anyone could talk about. The medication was meant to ease the hysteria so that people would no longer feel compelled to wear masks on the train or withhold their kids from school. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Suddenly people were withdrawing from society even more, slinking into dark corners of their unhygienic apartments and refusing meals as their bodies wasted away. Others, judging from the rampant vandalism and belligerent gunshots that ring out on the hour like a grandfather clock, have gone absolutely ballistic.

Yet from where Saff sits perched, cozy in the Squad headquarters with the rest of her suite-mates, the world that was once so urgently hers seems desolate and distant. Architects have been known to brag that the expensive glass of the window she is pressing her face against is so fancy that everything beyond it looks HD, so that even the city trash clogging the gutters and gathering at the curbs seems elegant, like a boutonniere on the lapel of public pandemonium. In a room like this, a conglomerate of pretentious little snobs, each with their own gripes and melodramatic histories, can sit around a furbished mahogany table and talk strategy. So eager, so naively deluded that their actions will “save” a world frankly too far gone for help, they’ve gathered to make plans and cast shame. One of the team had the gall to call it quits? Oh, she snuck off without anyone catching her? What a crime! Saff rolls her eyes as she takes a seat.

We weren’t assembled to fight crime and make the world a better place, Saff thinks bitterly. In fact, if the riots are any indication, the city of Cherrin, now closed off from the rest of the world, is on the brink of a radical Revolution. Looking around the room at the nine gritty faces of her fellow Squad members from her place at the head of the table, Saff feels itchy thinking about the power they’ve been entrusted with. Deep down, part of her envies Rosalina, not for leaving, but for having the luxury to even fathom abandoning the security of their HeadQuarters and returning to a world so hostile even the streets seem insatiable with bloodlust.

Saff hasn’t stepped out to the city in weeks. She knows many people would take a look at her—her warm, sun-kissed skin, her obsidian curls flying from her face like Medusa’s snakes, the olive colored eyes and rebellious body-art—and find a lot of pleasure in yanking out her piercings and cutting each tattoo right off her skin. It’s that sort of world now, and if anyone is desperate or dumb enough to risk it, why condemn that prerogative?

“Rosalina didn’t contribute anything to the group,” declares Ren, who is equally unimpressed with this whole fiasco. Shoving her silky raven hair into a sloppy bun, she adds, “Her leave hasn’t really changed anything.” Saff notices that though the sun isn’t out yet, Ren’s somehow found time to cake on the eyeliner in time for the meeting. She wonders if Ren is really just a raccoon with a human’s body.

“But we needed her powers,” Terrence counters. His velvety voice is as smooth and reasonable as ever. “She was the only one who would’ve been able to figure out exactly when The Clinic would strike!” This is true. For the last two weeks or so, Biv—the man to whom they all more or less owed their souls—had been taking Rosalina a`side to learn how to control her visions and hone in on specific cues in order to gain information vital to the “mission”.

Of course, if you asked Saff, the “mission” is a load of crap.

“Oh please,” Wyatt, who clearly agrees, sneers, his stony face eclipsed by his oversized black hoodie. “That bitch was too busy wiping snot from her nose to figure out anything.” It’s old news that Wyatt’s tolerance for Rosalina is low, what with him constantly using his power to invade her mind and use her own thoughts against her. But for some, this is a sensitive subject, and such talk is blasphemy.

“Guys, please,” Scarlet says warily, flashing Wyatt a chagrined pout. “Don’t talk about her like that. Rosalina was going through a lot.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Saff says, sitting up now. “She wasn’t going through anything different than what the rest of us are going through. She was kinda unstable and pretty damn emotional, but that doesn’t mean she gets a free pass to bail on us.” As much as Saff respects Scarlet, the girl has a tendency to understate the truth. There should be no euphemisms for inadequacy.

Rosalina had undoubtedly been their weakest link. With glass eyes and black hair that hung from her scalp as limply as dead fish, her presence was ghostly. At first they’d tried to sympathize with her; unsolicited visions of a bleak and dismal future were bound to exhaust anybody. But Rosalina’s issues seemed beyond adjusting to her powers, a rite they’d all suffered as well. In those first few weeks, some of them had bonded over hating the after-effects of Biv’s back alley “operation,” a procedure he’d insisted was necessary for reasons he never disclosed. A little discomfort was common, but it was different with Rosalina. She’d been twitchy, standoffish…and unprecedentedly miserable.

Pushing his thick, rectangular glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Ariel, who is seated to Saff’s left, nods in agreement. The plaid button-up he’s wearing seems more like a picnic blanket than a shirt the way it engulfs his scrawny frame. “I couldn’t be in a room alone with her too long,” he confesses, a little sheepishly. “Rose was a little…too sad. Like, she never responded well to my mood alterations and I always felt suicidal after looking into her eyes.” He shudders.

Saff takes Ariel’s testimony as proof of her point. “See?” she says, holding out her palm in the direction of the scrawny little hipster. “Even our little empath couldn’t cheer her up.”

Lloyd, nonchalant as ever, runs a hand through his floppy black hair and shrugs. “Rose is gone. Okay. Now what? We go looking for her?”

“No. We don’t have time to waste looking for a traitor.” The words are even, sharp. Saff can’t help herself grinning at the small but fierce Japenese girl. She loves it when Azul takes the floor.

Scarlet frowns. “How is she a traitor?”

Azul stares at Scarlet like she’s stupid. It never fails; Scarlet really does have a knack for undeservingly giving people the benefit of the doubt. “She made a commitment,” Azul says, blowing her blonde bangs out of her eyes. Each word is deliberate, cold. “Then, she turned her back on that commitment. That girl is a spineless traitor with no sense of honor whatsoever. Was that not obvious? Is the situation unclear?”

“I thought we were all free to leave if we wanted,” Lloyd says calmly. His arms are folded and his squinty black eyes are already glazed with boredom.

“No.” Azul gives him a stern look. “No,” she says. “You are not.”

“We need to find her,” Garman suddenly declares. Saff smiles at him sweetly. This is classic Garman—always overstepping the mark, under the impression that he holds more authority than he actually does. She’s surprised that he’s managed to remain quiet for so long. “We’ll send a lookout team to figure out where she is. We’ll make her tell us what she knows, and then we’ll leave her alone. She’s made her choice to leave, and we should respect that. But we can’t let her selfishness sabotage everything we’ve worked for.”

“Everything we’ve worked for,” Wyatt mocks nastily. “How do you not all realize how full of shit you are?” Eyeing him wearily, Saff can’t help but question how Wyatt ever passed kindergarten.

“Get out.” Azul doesn’t even turn her head to look at him as she gives the order. She isn’t one to tolerate blatant disrespect, and Azul certainly isn’t about to give Wyatt the satisfaction of having his presence acknowledged or his behavior condoned.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Wyatt slams his fist on the table indignantly. Saff imagines if, growing up, he ever brought report cards home to Mommy plastered with comments like, Doesn’t get along with others and Doesn’t work well in teams.

“Guys, please, watch the language—”

Maybe he was a glue sniffer.

Ren rolls her eyes at Scarlet’s attempts to restore the peace. “Shut up, Scar. Little Miss Blue can handle herself, can’t she?”

Azul flashes a smile at Ren and then turns to Wyatt, her face now expressionless. “I know how to kill a man with my bare hands,” she says simply, each word carrying equal weight. “I learned a thing or two on the street; I can gladly demonstrate. You don’t take us seriously, fine. Leave. Get out. You won’t be missed.”

Everyone watches silently as Wyatt rises, and stalks towards the door. Ariel in particular looks downright scared shitless. Saff is sure the tension is like a knife in his chest, the emotions of everyone in the room bouncing off of him violently. Poor little hipster. And then suddenly, a wave of tranquility sweeps through like a breeze. She shoots Ariel a quick look of approval, and then turns her attention back to Wyatt. His baggy jeans appear ready to slide off his hips, the hoodie barely covering his boxers. He seems to be staring at her as he makes his exit, his face no longer shadowed so that Saff is able to make out the angular lining of his jaw and his sunken blue irises, abysmal and menacing in a way that’s almost…sexy? No. Saff mentally chides herself for even having the thought.

Wyatt’s glare is different from Luvine’s, she notes. His eyes generate lasers as cold as ice. He doesn’t close the door behind him, either. Of course not; he isn’t dramatic enough to bother with something as childish as slamming a door to make a point. Wyatt’s obnoxious, but in little ways he’s not as juvenile as he makes himself out to be.

There is silence for a while.

Finally, Luvine clears her throat and narrows her eyes at everybody now, immediately back to business. “So what’s the verdict? Look for Rose, yes or no?”

“We should look for her,” Garman reiterates, trying to make his opinion sound more official the second time around.

“Where would we start?” says Luvine, deciding to humor his suggestion.

Garman blinks in surprise. He was expecting more opposition, so he isn’t ready with an answer. He looks unsure.

“We should tell Biv,” Terrence blurts out suddenly. Saff rolls her eyes. Terrence is a sweetheart, but he doesn’t have a rebellious bone in his body. He justs wants Biv to take direction of the situation, smack a couple people around and disappear again. She studies his mocha skin, his chiseled arms. At six feet, he towers over nearly everyone in the room, even sitting down, and yet he’s so…submissive. It’s a little sickening.

Ren leans forward, her chin resting in her hands. “Why would we involve him?” she says. It’s more of a challenge than a question.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” says Terrence, ever-so-ethical.

“Wow. Wyatt would have a ball with that one,” Ren scoffs. End of discussion. She is equally sickened by this response.

“Look. We’re not telling Biv anything,” Scarlet finally pipes up, taking charge. “We’re just going to go about things as usual. Okay? And we’ll go looking for Rose if we come up with any leads on where to find her. It doesn’t make any sense to go wandering aimlessly. The streets are getting more and more dangerous every day.” She turns towards the windows with an expression of malaise.

“Sounds good,” Luvine says, scribbling away on her yellow notepad. She deserves a merit badge for being the Anti-Squad Unofficial Secretary.

There are no objections, although Terrence’s ego looks crushed. Garman’s ego...well, his ego is on life support and he doesn’t know how to let a lost cause go.

“Meeting adjourned then.” Saff stands up. “Anybody else hungry? I’m in the mood for breakfast but I sure as hell won’t be the one making it.”

Terrence sighs. “Pancakes?”

Saff nods. Honestly, she wouldn’t trust anyone else on the Squad but him to prepare her meals.

1
1 0 1

She wouldn't say no to an adventure.

Sirens raced into a near distance, like all other days in between crazy streets.

“Hey Mister.” An unfamiliar voice crept up from behind my back and as I turned around standing there was the most peculiar kid I had ever seen.

She was at least four and half feet tall, her hair is almost comparable to an autumn day in New York, a subtle mix of a sunset sky most people have the luxury to see. She wore faded jeans and a pink shirt; ones you see most children her age wear. You can’t miss it. Though what really caught my attention was this purse she was carried in her hand.It is the not of things, one that clearly didn’t belong in the picture.

“Yes little girl? How may I help you?” I crouched a bit and brought myself down to her eye level. I thought to myself how and why on earth is she alone is such a busy place, where and who could her parents be?

She smiled at me for a bit then suddenly, her expression changed from a slipping sunshine into brief hints of rain.

“Mister, do you know where I can buy this little white stick where magic smoke comes out? My mother does magic all the time though she needed to buy some more because she’s almost out.”

She caught me off guard there for a while as I couldn’t even begin how to answer her question. I had to think for a moment, but I was interrupted shortly after she started to tug the sleeve of my shirt.

“Hey mister, mister! Is anybody home in there? Where can I buy magic sticks for my mother??”

She kept on tugging and I swear a if I didn’t stop her sooner my sleeve will be torn off.

“Magic sticks?” I stood up and fixed my sleeves. Scratched my head as she gazed upon my curious face with such innocent intent.

“Yes, magic sticks. I need to hurry or else mother will go to heaven!”

What she just said enraged me.  I can’t even begin to process how wrong all of this is.

“Where is your mother?, I have some magic sticks here that I don’t need. I will gladly share some.” 

“She’s waiting for me by that place where everyone’s treasure is kept. She works there you see and she just let me go out through her secret door all by myself. She says it would be a nice adventure for a change and I am not the type of kid who backs down from adventures. I am no trapped princess! No sir!” She giggled and my heart cracked into two.

She mentioned her mother working at a bank. And the nearest one was at least five blocks away. Goodness. I am surprised how she got this far by herself. 

“Okay then. Let’s go save your mother.”
“AAALRIGHT! Let’s go mister! My mother doesn’t like to wait long!”

We went back to her mother’s workplace only to find dozens of ambulances and police cars all crowded near the entrance.
I felt this blunt pain inside my chest as I finally realized the truth behind the scheme of things.

She was silent and my heart broke into pieces.

1
4 0 4

Notice

As I sit here, in the comfy chair by the corner window, I begin to notice. The man flirting with the woman at the bar, but surreptitiously glancing at the male bartender who keeps giving them drinks on the house. The hostess making her rounds, with an empty glass of wine in her hand. The couple, who just entered the room, standing a little farther apart than would be expected. I notice the man in another chair, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper like a someone running out of time. The teenage girl, who's sitting on the couch and pretending to text her friends, but really watching the boy across the room who's standing in the corner, examining the book spines. I notice the frost beginning to form on the window, and the elderly woman drawing designs on it. The man sitting at the island, watching his coffee go cold. I notice all of these, and realize that while we're all in the same room, we're all alone.

0
0 0 0

Posession

Move in such a way as to make every inch of my body take notice.

Speak to my soul and make me crave every syllable.

Breathe a fire into my loins that only you can quench.

Make my breathing hitch and pant with desire.

Take my body to new heights of yearning, longing for your strength.

Beckon me home to your soul where oneness is inevitable.

Demand your carnal satisfaction from my willing body.

Breathe into my ear and whisper raging declarations of need.

Mercilously push me beyond an errant doubt of your ability.

Take from me that which is yours unapologetically.

Drive me to unrestrained cries of passion and insatiable wanton sighs.

Cause me to quake and throb as only you can.

Slake your thirst on my body and exhaust your need on my soul.

And when you’re through,

Call to my heart and take it delicately into yours.

Hold me as you hold a treasured posession.

Possess me and call me yours.

0
1 0 1

Somewhere

"You are late."

"I tried to get here as soon as I could, what is it?"

"You are late."

"I know, I tried to get here as soon as I could haven't I just told you that?"

"You are late."

"I am sorry."

"Sorry- five letters- one for each finger, amazing how humans could come up with such words for such great offenses."

"What is wrong Diana?"

"You are late."

"I said I am sorry! Now can we get past this and tell me what was so urgent that I had to leave the office, navigate traffic, pass a red light, almost run over a cat and sweat like a maniac just to get here!"

"You are late Bryson."

"Aarrghhhh! You know what? Go to hell Diana. I am tired."

"You are late."

"Would you just speak up? I don't have time for this. SPEAK! "

"I lost our baby..."

0
0 0 0

Bringing the Band Together.

o0Oo0Oo by Oberhofer on Grooveshark

Nimble fingers plucking out a random rhythm on a beat-up bass. That was everything to her.

She used to care about big, shiny parties. Sometime, she still shivered from the long-expired leftovers. She could feel the hungry people, clutching at her like finger sandwiches, soaking her skin in champagne. She remembered feeling beautiful at first. Like a tablecloth, you know, before.

White-on-black kicks, scuffed into something gray, textured, and tough tapped out a rhythm.

She used to dream about music. Now she needed songs to sleep. She used to roll down rivers, Brandon Boyd singing a lullaby while whatever new dad roamed the halls in the wrong direction. Her way. She let Lostprophets drown out all the girls who hated her hips, all the boys who loved her body, while she sunk deep into circuit boards and sound consoles. She was Tragedy Bound.

Lips popping out percussion, until clean, white teeth part and pull at the cheap, red second skin.

She lights went brought across the cityscape and she looked up. The gunshots didn't get any quieter. Police sirens and ambulances still roared like an angry crowd. The light was supposed to be about hope, but what's hope without music? What's imagination without a little desperation?

Then some creeper walked by, a zonked half-naked girl in his arms. Her mental record skipped.

STALKER by the pillows on Grooveshark

 

He was dressed like Chippendale's. It was just the sort of thing she'd see at the wrong parties back West. The music stopped, or at least it shouldn't have. She didn't notice the riffs ramping up. She only heard the ringing in her ears, her half-imagined battle aura like some anime. She imagined being strong.

Then she slammed her Rickenbacker hard across the back of his skull. He didn't see it coming.

The girl dropped, but he went flying a good 30 feet into a Cadillac. She hadn't seen that coming.

Then the gang across the street spilled out like ants. Then the blonde girl woke up and spontaneously combusted. Then a black girl cosplaying TRON goes to PROM descended from the sky. Then a random... girl? Boy? Street kid dropped a reuben and screamed like all hell. At her.

Holy rusted metal, Batman... She was glowing. Her bass vibrated like sex. The track changed...

Gold Guns Girls by Metric on Grooveshark

Nessa blinked. Nessa freaked out for exactly two and a half seconds.

Then Vanessa Elliot kicked a lot whole Metric ton of ass.

Prompt:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

And with the team brick, I'll shelve that experiment. That said, if anyone requests more stories of any/all of these characters, I'm happy to continue. (Adamant | Michael/Noel | Cali | Legacy )

You never call... You never write... These old bones start to worry.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts and more.