my attempt at flash fiction. i don't know if this style works for me... meh. enjoy.
broken. She stood at the edge. Bare toes with ebony painted nails moved through air. Teasing and taunting her to add more of the foot they were attached to. She was amazed at the power she possessed up here. The way her fear melted like ice on hot asphalt in the mid summer's heat.
'I have control. I can make or break your world. As you did mine. If I fall. It would be by your own hand. You would blame yourself for eternity. (As you should)'
You drove her to climb those stars. 32 stories. 10 stairs per story. Her bare feet stood on 320 stairs. On the way to her destiny. The place where she could see the city. And everything below she intended to great.
Why this building? Does it contain any significance in the choice that she made? Nothing that would make sense to you. Nothing made sense to her anymore either. Not after she walked into voices. Yours. And another's. Weaving together like oil and water. So loud in your thrusts you didn't hear the catch slip out of its sheath, and the door creek open. Revealing you, in all your adulterate glory. You didn't see her heart shatter into pieces. But the devil did. She smiled her evil vindictive grin, and pressed her claws deeper into your back. While starring at the shadow in the doorway with burning blue eyes.
The magic someone weaved into little white ovals had quietened her. As it was intended to do. It made her weak. Vulnerable. She embraced the numbness now. Ingested, soaked and savored the right to anonymity. He relinquished her right to rational thought. Thinking only of the pain she would be releasing when she left this world.
I am no longer a victim. I need not suffer in the world of the living to keep you safe. Keep you happy. Without your soul to worry about. I can embrace the bottle. Embrace the blade'
And soon she would embrace the nothingness which will be her grave.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
**the Lake**
I haven't written for a while. and my life is pretty boring. so have a couple of paragraphs of a story i started a while ago.
The walls were painted a deep thunderstorm gray, separated occasionally by black and white photographs, and pencil sketches. A full length window looked out on a freshwater lake , the color similar to the confines in which she was captured. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at the environment in which the surrounded themselves with. The folded shirts lying slumberous in a deep oak dresser, showing order and control. Worn brushes in a jam jar, lying next to half painted canvass showed creativity and the ability to disappear into her own little world. Upon a ebony patchwork quilt lay the owner of this dark bed/art room. Lillie lay her feet on top of the wrought iron headboard, looking out through the glass to the Lake. It was surrounded by deep wooded fur trees their branches reaching towards the sky & moving in the cool autumn breeze like fingers waving to a loved one. She sighed, it had been too long since she had left this place. But each day she avoided venturing out to the real world more and more, so to speak except for the essentials, like more pots of gauche, or bottles (always plural never singular) of Jack Daniels. This was somewhere she hid. A place she would run to, when she wanted to rid herself of the world. Lillie would hibernate here and wait for inspiration to strike.
At 24 she was the youngest artist to find herself a niche in the Waterholm/ Hartford gallery. She was known for her dark, haunting photography and even more mind blowing paintings. The word revolutionist had been used to describe her by the “Art Annual” magazine, most pretentious but still, an unlocked doorway into to the elite art world. Lillie was unlike the other artists which words adorned the gallery walls. She slid away from fancy party's, award evenings and stayed indoors with her headphones, cat and sometimes her soul. Her face would grace the gallery rarely, and even then just to make sure the paintings had not been displayed front and center. Hanging them there was a way to make cash, for more canvas and film, it was the process of capturing a moment in time which thrilled her, what made her motor run, and what drove her to continue down this 'unkempt path.' Jarred (a now very ex boyfriend) had called her his “Leonardo Pollock” a talent of a great master, with a mindset of the reclusive alcoholic abstract expressionist.
well.... do tell me what you think?
X's and O's
Ness
The walls were painted a deep thunderstorm gray, separated occasionally by black and white photographs, and pencil sketches. A full length window looked out on a freshwater lake , the color similar to the confines in which she was captured. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at the environment in which the surrounded themselves with. The folded shirts lying slumberous in a deep oak dresser, showing order and control. Worn brushes in a jam jar, lying next to half painted canvass showed creativity and the ability to disappear into her own little world. Upon a ebony patchwork quilt lay the owner of this dark bed/art room. Lillie lay her feet on top of the wrought iron headboard, looking out through the glass to the Lake. It was surrounded by deep wooded fur trees their branches reaching towards the sky & moving in the cool autumn breeze like fingers waving to a loved one. She sighed, it had been too long since she had left this place. But each day she avoided venturing out to the real world more and more, so to speak except for the essentials, like more pots of gauche, or bottles (always plural never singular) of Jack Daniels. This was somewhere she hid. A place she would run to, when she wanted to rid herself of the world. Lillie would hibernate here and wait for inspiration to strike.
At 24 she was the youngest artist to find herself a niche in the Waterholm/ Hartford gallery. She was known for her dark, haunting photography and even more mind blowing paintings. The word revolutionist had been used to describe her by the “Art Annual” magazine, most pretentious but still, an unlocked doorway into to the elite art world. Lillie was unlike the other artists which words adorned the gallery walls. She slid away from fancy party's, award evenings and stayed indoors with her headphones, cat and sometimes her soul. Her face would grace the gallery rarely, and even then just to make sure the paintings had not been displayed front and center. Hanging them there was a way to make cash, for more canvas and film, it was the process of capturing a moment in time which thrilled her, what made her motor run, and what drove her to continue down this 'unkempt path.' Jarred (a now very ex boyfriend) had called her his “Leonardo Pollock” a talent of a great master, with a mindset of the reclusive alcoholic abstract expressionist.
well.... do tell me what you think?
X's and O's
Ness
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
**wine red**
the only thing constant about life is change
i have learnt that of late
as soon as you think something is here to stay.
and things are as perfect as you want them to be
change, afoot, in his heavy combat boots
stamps on anything, and everything.
i'm going through some change at the moment.
more than usual.
different that usual.
i need time.
i need friends
and most of all, i need 'change' to leave some things in my life intact
please.
i have learnt that of late
as soon as you think something is here to stay.
and things are as perfect as you want them to be
change, afoot, in his heavy combat boots
stamps on anything, and everything.
i'm going through some change at the moment.
more than usual.
different that usual.
i need time.
i need friends
and most of all, i need 'change' to leave some things in my life intact
please.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
