Wednesday, 11 March 2015
3/11/2015 06:19:00 pm boy, child, conflicted, fear, journalword, kidnap, my attempt at poetry, son, trapped, writing No comments
JournalWord: Someone Else's Son
I could scream and someone would hear.
The gate is so close, but my parents are so far. And, besides, I don’t know where I am.
But I know, if I scream like I did that night they captured me,
Mum will lose more sleep.
And Nancy and Bill say they’ll kill
Mum and Dad if I tell.
But the gate is open
And the neighbors are out watering their lilies.
Someone will help me
Someone will take me home.
I can’t go, though, because if I am caught again,
Surely the belt blows will break my bones.
I have to keep Mum and Dad safe,
Because I can,
So I’ll stay someone else’s son today.
Sunday, 8 February 2015
2/08/2015 03:30:00 am drive, driving, fog, ghost, jot, journal, mist, notes, road, short, snippet, writing No comments
Driving home in the fog.
Trees try to point you in the right direction.
Leftover Christmas lights spooking through the mist.
Every light bounces haphazardly from street lights and road strips.
I hope I'm closer to home.
- on the drive home.
Driving through dangerous conditions seems to be my forte.
Thursday, 22 January 2015
1/22/2015 08:16:00 pm bone, bones, dark, draft, journal, kiss, rough, skeleton, skin, snippet, writing No comments
Pulling her skin off over her head like a sweater.
His hide slips from over his hips and down his knees. He walks out of them when they reach his ankles, tossing them aside in a crumpled mass behind him.
She helps him take his upper half off after pulling him in for a kiss - before he loses his lips.
Her teeth on the last of his skin.
Standing bared to his bones, she smiles at him and kicks her feet. He grabs her toes and she clacks her jaw as he tugs her bottom half cleanly in one swift pull.
In their bones, they touch ribs.
Phalanges stroke tibias.
Skulls tucked into collarbones.
- This is how I think. Welcome to a small slice of my mind.
(This is a rough draft. Haven't put much effort into it or decided to work on it yet. Maybe later. Maybe not.)
Monday, 5 January 2015
1/05/2015 08:13:00 pm cheese, disgusting, garbage, gross, lazy, orange juice, perspective, thoughts No comments
I have two slices of cheese in my hand. I had chopped 6 thick chunks because I felt like it, overestimating my own desire to consume them.
Damn new knives that slide through marble blocks like a katana against freaking bamboo. Curse the satisfaction!
I'm too lazy to put them back in the fridge. That's one reason they're still on my left palm, but the other infuriates me. It's a challenge now of whether I can shove these two slices into my mouth and consume them.
Challenge accepted, gods!
I should not have sniffed them first. I can smell how long they've been sitting on my skin. Half an hour is not a pleasant smell on cheese.
I take a gulp of orange juice, making sure to ration the half empty glass through this ordeal. I'm going to need to gargle after this. Braving the first bite is like chewing on molten garbage. Quickly swallowing, I chase it with a mouthful of OJ but it won't go down fast enough.
It takes a strength in me I'm not sure I like to peel the warm cheese off my life lines and dangle it over my lips. It had left greasy prints behind on my palm and before I can acknowledge my nauseousness, that chunk goes down my throat with the ease of a live goldfish down my esophagus. I drown it in the last of my orange juice and wipe my hand with this morning's towel heaped on the foot of my bed.
Hah, I win.
Friday, 2 January 2015
1/02/2015 02:05:00 am bench, body, clothes, clothing, cold, hallway, journalword, prostitute, women No comments
JournalWord: A cold Hell
My fingers are frozen into tight little fists underneath these thin lace gloves. The skin is bright through the spaces between the webs and I worry my fingers won't make it through this winter.
Frostbitten appendages would severely hinder customer appeal.
Angel whimpers beside me, sticking her cold, red nose into my arm as she snuggles closer for warmth. She isn't finding what she needs, neither of us are, but we wrap our arms around each other anyway, watching the doorknobs with dread and hope.
It's warm in there, but warmth comes at a price.
The lamps are dim, and flicker with an uncertainty at our low clientele. We clench our teeth and tug tighter. Our arms wrap around our bodies easily without anything to hold onto except our own hips. Angel shudders under her sheer blouse, tucking her fingertips into the hem of her leather panties, the only real article of fabric that has a chance of staving off the chill. I have no such luck with my own attire comprised of a worn, lacy corset and boa set, and nothing else. I wrap the scraggly boa tighter around my neck, squeezing any ounce of heat the remaining tufts of feathers can produce.
We're not insulated at all. We envy the abundant coats and thick scarves our customers trudge in. They complain as soon as they enter the rooms, immediately ripping off their layers and wiping up patches of sweat. We can only dream for a proper, wool glove.
This rickety bench creaks under our skimpy weight when we shiver. Between clouds of cold breath, we wiggle our toes to fight for circulation. They hang off the edge of this narrow old bench like icicles threatening to fall.
A doorknob down in the shadows clicks as an invitation and I nod my head at Angel. She shakes her head but I untangle her bony arms from my waist and shove her off the bench and towards the door. She squeezes my hand appreciatively and cracks a grateful smile with her full blue lips. A gust of heat escapes before she can shut it behind her and it leaves me envious with its taunt.
Maybe hell is like this, and not warm at all.
Monday, 7 April 2014
4/07/2014 10:27:00 pm air, clouds, consort, fog, giant, gloom, journalword, personification, queen, storm No comments
The Queen Consort of Gloom is a leviathan of billowing cobalt clouds and vapor. Her face is obscured by her nebulous crown; curling over her taunt, pale cheekbones and sharp jaw.
Her shoulders are rounded, bony, blue in pallor, and hunched into her chest. They strain under the weight of her overcast headdress; neck elongated and exposed through the fog skimming over the top of her arched spine.
The mist lazily swirls over her pointed ears, crackling in the darker concentrations; building steam and smoke in its own condensed reaction. Her tracks are lazy under her skirts of dusty frost and vapor. They're unseen and soaking into the soil. She pauses her solemn trek through the mountains she towers, murky indigo lips, shaped like the clouds she reigns, sighing a puff of air that blows the snow piled on their peaks.
Like the goliath she is and with the thick air of a goddess, she freezes the landscape in a mixture of awe and horror. Successfully snatching back the breath of her spectators, she glares, her eyes dark and a storm in themselves.
Thursday, 28 November 2013
11/28/2013 10:41:00 am baby, begging, chemistry, combustion, confusion, cry, journalword, night, poem, science, sleep 2 comments
You spew, bubble, and steam.
Howling like an instant combustion.
These phases of matter I can't explain.
My dear, you're more complicated than my chemistry research.
Sweet angel, from all these reactants, which will bring about the desired reaction?
I'm mixing, measuring, calculating every equilibrium throughout the day.
With nothing that brings a balance for the nights.
A recipe of hush, lullabies, and rocking, perhaps?
Maybe a beaker of warm milk to soothe your teeth?
Baby girl, you're quite the simple little thing, but simply destructive to my sleep.
I think I'm going to revamp my original island story, "Fool's Paradise", into a more fleshed out tale with an actual consistent plot. But this will be a challenge as it is now summing up to be quite a novel in itself -.- I did not expect so much more ideas and plot twists from a simple theme! :D
Well, I'll be working on that, but