I was listening to the song "Bruises" by Chairlift and loved the lines of the male singer mid-way through the song. "I grabbed some frozen strawberries so I could ice your bruising knees, but frozen things they all unfreeze and now I taste like... All those frozen strawberries I used to ice your bruising knees, hot July ain't good to me. I'm pink and black and blue for you." The imagery of someone doctoring someone's hurt knees with frozen strawberries was just too sickeningly sweet, so I thought it would be fun to throw a werewolf and werewolverine at it by dragging the linespiration into the world of Raze. Enter Lucas and Claire:
Beethoven's 9th symphony was playing so loudly that even humans would have heard it before reaching the driveway. Lucas's brow raised; this didn't seem like Gabe's choice in music at all, and Evelyn wouldn't be awake this early in the day. Indeed, the werebear's beat up Chevy was absent from the driveway, suggesting that the only individual home who might be listening was Claire. He grinned as he parked and headed towards the front door, steadying himself with his cane; so she was a fan of classical music? Perhaps he could take her to one of the symphonic orchestra concerts held in Missoula every weekend in July.
Weaving through the house, which still felt more Sreya's than his own, Lucas sought the source of the din. His stereo had been moved to the middle of the kitchen table, angled toward the opened window, which currently lay in the shade of a ladder. If he struggled to hear over the music - at this volume and proximity, a symphony reduced to a tintamar - he thought he detected footfalls on the roof. A glob of damp, decaying pine needles suddenly dropping from the heavens to the ground below immediately explained Claire's peculiar perch. Evelyn had complained about water seeping into the basement with the previous night's rain due to the gutters overflowing, after all.
Lucas left the cane propped against the table and eased open the side door carefully, hoping to avoid any jettisoned gutter waste. Climbing the ladder gave his shins a dull ache that reminded him of darker days, but he ignored the pain until his palms met the top rung. There, rump in the air in an undignified crouch over the gutter was Claire, slender arms begrimed to the elbow. He tried, for the sake of politeness, to ignore the curve of her buttocks peeking over her shorts as she reached forward.
“Claire?” The name had barely left his mouth and she was startled airborne, wheeling to face him with her delicate lips pulled back in a snarl that looked too fearsome for blunt human teeth. It was an impressive reaction time, but with such a precarious perch her instinct’s haste sent her feet flailing over the edge of the gutter. For a desperate moment she grappled the slick gray slate shingles, wet fingertips finding no yield, before falling from the roof.
Lucas gaped for a moment then rushed forward, peering over the roof’s edge with a reluctance born of guilt. Claire was hunched on the earth casting a gaze somewhere between embarrassed and baleful his way. She hadn’t fallen badly enough to be seriously injured, thank goodness, but her knees had struck the hard, rocky earth below; glacial regions weren’t known for a forgiving landscape. He could see dark bruises blossoming beneath the shallow red scrapes that were just barely threatening to bleed.
The werewolf, without thinking, vaulted from the roof, gritting his teeth at the shock in his aching bones as his feet slammed to the earth. He crouched in front of Claire, who did not speak but merely breathed heavily with wide eyes, her energy a prickling electricity as she tried to recover from the spook. Lucas’s fingertips hovered over her knees tentatively. As he moved to touch one of the wounds, a low rumble sounded from deep in her chest. He scuttled back rapidly, palms raised and eyes averted submissively. Then, he had an idea.
“Wait here.” Lucas turned and bounded up the stairs, making a bee-line for the kitchen. Not being a fan of the frozen, prepared meals that were fast becoming an American dietary staple, he hadn’t even opened the freezer since purchasing Sreya’s house. He hoped she was at least a fan of ice cubes in her drinks, and was disappointed to find none awaiting him in the unit’s fluorescent chill. However, crumpled and forgotten in the rear of the freezer, he spied a bag of frozen strawberries. Good enough.
Outside, Claire was wiping her hands free of gutter sludge on the sides of her powder blue tank top, ignoring her wounded knees. They had turned an angry purple, and while both the scrapes and bruises would heal in mere hours among their kind, the pain therians experienced was still very much real. Lucas knelt before her, looking at her injuries but not her eyes with his head lowered; being submissive was never contrived for him.
He extended the bag of strawberries. She did not growl this time, and he scooted closer, slowly laying the package over her closest knee. She flinched with the coldness and curled her lip slightly, but did not lash out nor pull away. Gradually, the tension began to leave her body, and she finally dared a sheepish smile.
“Thank you.“ The stereo had gone silent as The 9th concluded, and Lucas could detect barest hint of a French Canadian accent in the sonorous tones of her voice. It was one of many things he found pleasant about her.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” The sun was hot against the back of his neck as he kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on Claire’s slender legs under the bulky burden of the frozen strawberries. Only now did he realize that the bag had several punctures; as its contents thawed in the heat of the July air, the heat of their bodies, cool viscous pink was leaking out. Lucas’s fingers were sticky with fruit syrup. It ran in a sweet sluggish rivulet down the front of Claire’s shin. “Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize -”
Claire cut him off with a trill of laughter, running an index finger up her leg and licking the strawberry juice off of its tip delicately. She gently grasped his hand and lifted it along with the package, her pale knee pink and black and blue beneath. She took the strawberries and placed them on the ground, but maintained her grasp on his hand, lifting his palm towards her. Her tongue flicked quickly across his skin, and she peered up at him with smiling blue eyes.
“You’re very sweet, Lucas.”
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The View
Linespiration: a writing exercise where you form a short work based on a single line from literature, lyrics, etc. This is based on the line "The view is so beautiful all the way down" from the song "This is Life."
The wind was powerful this high up, blowing her hair back from her face in a wild, thrashing tangle that exposed the fading gray-green bruises at her temple. She removed her sunglasses, blinking into the brilliance of sunlight reflecting off of the water through a puffy black eye. Her lips, swollen and cracked, upturned slightly as the breeze carried the cool, damp scent of the river over the bridge.
That smell… it brought with it fond memories of her childhood, of crashing over the wakes produced by freighters in her father’s motor boat. She recalled her grandfather’s big, warm hands against the cold, scaly bodies of the bass he’d catch; he always let them go. She thought of picnicking with her mother by the riverfront, watching their Labrador splash after driftwood in the shallows.
Their first date had been by the river, barely a year ago but it seemed a different epoch. He’d held her hand in the moonlight as they sat huddled on a bench, their breaths a fog intertwining like lovers in the cold night air. His fingertips had been cool on her cheek when he cradled her face for their first kiss; it was an exhilarating moment.
But much as the river eroded the bedrock and carried it to the sea, those days had been worn out and washed away. It started innocently enough; she thought it was funny the first time he ordered a meal for her at a restaurant. Sure, he was jealous of her male friends - but only because he loved her and feared losing her, right? It was harder to rationalize the time he left bruises on her forearm that lasted more than a week while pulling her out of a department store because she was “flirting” with the sales clerk.
Last week she’d tripped and fallen, spilling his mug of beer on the floor. She remembered thinking as she lay with her face pressed to the carpet tasting blood from a blow that forced her teeth into her cheek. And what she thought, despite the long months of being berated and belittled, was that a real man would help a woman up if she tripped and fell.
She hoisted herself up onto the railing, an exhilarated shiver running down her spine as balance alone stood between her and that vast distance to the water’s surface. It seemed bitterly ironic, having the will to stand here at the edge, but not to leave him. He’d made it clear that he owned her, and in a way she knew he always would even if she did find the strength to leave. Physical and emotional scars, the memories of what he’d done, what she’d let him do, would forever bind her to him - true ownership indeed.
She looked up to see a gull drifting lackadaisically in the breeze. She wanted to feel that way; carefree, adrift in perfect comfort and ease. She was a bird with wings clipped by a persistent gnawing anxiety and terror, a creature caged by his domination and wrath. She was the stupid little sparrow who had tried to take shelter under a hawk’s wing.
Below, light danced on the surface of water. The trees, made diminutive by distance, swayed gently in the breeze. The gull wheeled downwards towards the surface in pursuit of prey. A sailboat far upstream left its moorings to greet the open water. She breathed deeply, taking in the sweet, familiar smell of the river once more…
She was in awe. The view was so beautiful all the way down.
The wind was powerful this high up, blowing her hair back from her face in a wild, thrashing tangle that exposed the fading gray-green bruises at her temple. She removed her sunglasses, blinking into the brilliance of sunlight reflecting off of the water through a puffy black eye. Her lips, swollen and cracked, upturned slightly as the breeze carried the cool, damp scent of the river over the bridge.
That smell… it brought with it fond memories of her childhood, of crashing over the wakes produced by freighters in her father’s motor boat. She recalled her grandfather’s big, warm hands against the cold, scaly bodies of the bass he’d catch; he always let them go. She thought of picnicking with her mother by the riverfront, watching their Labrador splash after driftwood in the shallows.
Their first date had been by the river, barely a year ago but it seemed a different epoch. He’d held her hand in the moonlight as they sat huddled on a bench, their breaths a fog intertwining like lovers in the cold night air. His fingertips had been cool on her cheek when he cradled her face for their first kiss; it was an exhilarating moment.
But much as the river eroded the bedrock and carried it to the sea, those days had been worn out and washed away. It started innocently enough; she thought it was funny the first time he ordered a meal for her at a restaurant. Sure, he was jealous of her male friends - but only because he loved her and feared losing her, right? It was harder to rationalize the time he left bruises on her forearm that lasted more than a week while pulling her out of a department store because she was “flirting” with the sales clerk.
Last week she’d tripped and fallen, spilling his mug of beer on the floor. She remembered thinking as she lay with her face pressed to the carpet tasting blood from a blow that forced her teeth into her cheek. And what she thought, despite the long months of being berated and belittled, was that a real man would help a woman up if she tripped and fell.
She hoisted herself up onto the railing, an exhilarated shiver running down her spine as balance alone stood between her and that vast distance to the water’s surface. It seemed bitterly ironic, having the will to stand here at the edge, but not to leave him. He’d made it clear that he owned her, and in a way she knew he always would even if she did find the strength to leave. Physical and emotional scars, the memories of what he’d done, what she’d let him do, would forever bind her to him - true ownership indeed.
She looked up to see a gull drifting lackadaisically in the breeze. She wanted to feel that way; carefree, adrift in perfect comfort and ease. She was a bird with wings clipped by a persistent gnawing anxiety and terror, a creature caged by his domination and wrath. She was the stupid little sparrow who had tried to take shelter under a hawk’s wing.
Below, light danced on the surface of water. The trees, made diminutive by distance, swayed gently in the breeze. The gull wheeled downwards towards the surface in pursuit of prey. A sailboat far upstream left its moorings to greet the open water. She breathed deeply, taking in the sweet, familiar smell of the river once more…
She was in awe. The view was so beautiful all the way down.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Common Ancestor Cafe
What do you do when you fail so hard as a writer that you can't even finish one lousy novel? Obviously, you write a random scene from a future novel in a series that you haven't even completed book one of. I give you a taste of volume three, with Trent (a hybrid wereanimal) and Arlette (a de-winged harpy once exploited in research and the sex trade) going out to eat at a cafe!
___Common Ancestor Cafe was a squat and inobtrusive brick building huddled nervously between two larger structures bearing a more sleek and modernized look. The owners had long ago given up on embellishing the storefront with the flowers, lanterns, or similar niceties donned by other businesses on the block, as these were inevitably vandalized. The buildings' walls themselves were a hodge-podge of graffitti, all colors and styles, some fresh and some faded. The one theme unifying the scrawlings was that they all reflected hate messages: Humans first! Death to vamp parasites! The only good therian is a dead therian! and so forth.
___Outside, despite the best efforts to keep it clean, the sidewalk seemed to sparkle with what was, upon close inspection, a large ammount of tiny glass shards crushed into the concrete and between its cracks. This was typical of inclusion facilities. Bricks, rocks, and on one occasion the disembodied head of a murdered werewolf had shattered the Common Ancestor's windows so many times that no ammount of sweeping could remove all of the glass. It was a miracle the place hadn't been burned to the ground yet, really, but with the current backlash against the Hominid Rights movement it was bound to happen in the imminent future. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasted.
___As I coaxed Arlette towards the entrance of the cafe, the corners of her yellow lips drooped downwards - much like her feirce golden eyes, which were cast to the ground as though submitting to the prejudice staring her in the face. Her hand tightened around mine as an insecure reflex, the tips of her talons dimpling my flesh. I hated seeing her this way; witnessing such a magnificent predator driven to despair was the same sort of tradgedy as watching a lion circle in a cage. I pulled her closer in comfort, the hot line of her arm against mine coarse and scaled where it met my wrist, silk smooth at my shoulder.
___On the door hung the customary warnings and disclaimers demanded by law at such a facility. On a red background with prominent white lettering, sans serif, was the warning: "Caution: This is a preternatural inclusion facility." Another, white with "NOTICE" in bold red and black print scrawled below cautioned: "Under section 403 of the 2001 Preternatural Hominids Act, this facility is licensed to provide services to non-humans. Human patrons should be advised that they will be sharing facilities with potentially infectious, predatory, or supernatural entities at their own risk." Finally, a copy of the public health code regarding the preparation and serving of food by non-humans to humans (strictly prohibited) was also posted. The owners of the store, in a feeble attempt at mirth, had posted their own sign: "If you're sentient and can pay the bill, welcome!"
___Common Ancestor Cafe was a squat and inobtrusive brick building huddled nervously between two larger structures bearing a more sleek and modernized look. The owners had long ago given up on embellishing the storefront with the flowers, lanterns, or similar niceties donned by other businesses on the block, as these were inevitably vandalized. The buildings' walls themselves were a hodge-podge of graffitti, all colors and styles, some fresh and some faded. The one theme unifying the scrawlings was that they all reflected hate messages: Humans first! Death to vamp parasites! The only good therian is a dead therian! and so forth.
___Outside, despite the best efforts to keep it clean, the sidewalk seemed to sparkle with what was, upon close inspection, a large ammount of tiny glass shards crushed into the concrete and between its cracks. This was typical of inclusion facilities. Bricks, rocks, and on one occasion the disembodied head of a murdered werewolf had shattered the Common Ancestor's windows so many times that no ammount of sweeping could remove all of the glass. It was a miracle the place hadn't been burned to the ground yet, really, but with the current backlash against the Hominid Rights movement it was bound to happen in the imminent future. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasted.
___As I coaxed Arlette towards the entrance of the cafe, the corners of her yellow lips drooped downwards - much like her feirce golden eyes, which were cast to the ground as though submitting to the prejudice staring her in the face. Her hand tightened around mine as an insecure reflex, the tips of her talons dimpling my flesh. I hated seeing her this way; witnessing such a magnificent predator driven to despair was the same sort of tradgedy as watching a lion circle in a cage. I pulled her closer in comfort, the hot line of her arm against mine coarse and scaled where it met my wrist, silk smooth at my shoulder.
___On the door hung the customary warnings and disclaimers demanded by law at such a facility. On a red background with prominent white lettering, sans serif, was the warning: "Caution: This is a preternatural inclusion facility." Another, white with "NOTICE" in bold red and black print scrawled below cautioned: "Under section 403 of the 2001 Preternatural Hominids Act, this facility is licensed to provide services to non-humans. Human patrons should be advised that they will be sharing facilities with potentially infectious, predatory, or supernatural entities at their own risk." Finally, a copy of the public health code regarding the preparation and serving of food by non-humans to humans (strictly prohibited) was also posted. The owners of the store, in a feeble attempt at mirth, had posted their own sign: "If you're sentient and can pay the bill, welcome!"
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Paul's Demise
This is actually from my major writing project! I rarely post anything from it here, but this is so first-draft that it doesn't really matter. Here we see our protagonist, in his animal form, taking out one of the "bad guys." It is meant to be fairly brutal, so if you're squeamish, perhaps avoid.
___The blood was fresh, only a slight tackiness like the thin skin on pudding marking the onset of coagulation. It was the distinct cartoon-bright red of arterial blood, always too dark in movies because directors are afraid it will look fake. It did look fake, but I could smell the adrenaline and iron and cholesterol, feel the heat rising from each pool against my cold nose when I inhaled. I bared my teeth, recognizing Paul's scent over the intoxicating metallic reek of blood.
___It did not take long to locate him; he'd returned to his human form in a vain effort to use his hands to stop the bleeding of a deep neck wound. I could hear his shallow, raspy breathing, smell the clammy sweat beading on his flabby form. He wouldn't survive long; shorter still now that I'd arrived. He was soaked in blood from effort to stem the flow, crusting in a brown craquelure at the elbows, slippery bright red at his hands and fingertips, the length of each forearm punctuated by dark clotting rivulets.
___Paul was beyond words. He only moaned pitifully as I approached, grimacing and averting his eyes submissively. He whimpered, growled, wept. Urine pooled beneath his fat body. The blood began to pulse more rapidly from between his fingertips. I couldn't feel sympathy; in my mind's eye, I saw him slamming the butt of the gun repeatedly against the werehyena's muzzle as she struggled to drag her bullet-addled body away from his abuse. A low growl rattled in the back of my throat, species indistinct, as I tensed to pounce.
___Paul went very still, his only movement a tendril of snot quivering from one nostril with each tremulous breath. His slaty eyes became wide and wild as I leapt, but he made no effort to fight nor flee. His flabby cheeks shredded, facial bones grating against my fangs before crushing inwards. My claws vanished into the doughy flesh of his abdomen, too soft, tearing but meeting nothing vital. Yellowed globules of fat left an oily residue on my fur, collected in great greasy clumps beneath the hooks of my claws.
___His breaths became convulsive and a high keening issued from his destroyed face as I finally caught the membrane of the peritoneum. Slick, rubbery intestine looped from the tear. At last his hands fell from his throat, feebly grabbing at my pelt in a last instinctive effort of defense. I seized the opportunity to affix my jaws and finish what the hyenas has started; the satisfying snap came with but one firm shake.
___Panting, I backed away from the devastation, Paul barely recognizable as he trembled and choked away his last moments. Yet I hadn't killed him here: he'd walked into the grave when he entered this territory intent to maim, torture and kill other therians. And in thinking this, I came to a very calm, cold realization: so too had the rest of them.
___The blood was fresh, only a slight tackiness like the thin skin on pudding marking the onset of coagulation. It was the distinct cartoon-bright red of arterial blood, always too dark in movies because directors are afraid it will look fake. It did look fake, but I could smell the adrenaline and iron and cholesterol, feel the heat rising from each pool against my cold nose when I inhaled. I bared my teeth, recognizing Paul's scent over the intoxicating metallic reek of blood.
___It did not take long to locate him; he'd returned to his human form in a vain effort to use his hands to stop the bleeding of a deep neck wound. I could hear his shallow, raspy breathing, smell the clammy sweat beading on his flabby form. He wouldn't survive long; shorter still now that I'd arrived. He was soaked in blood from effort to stem the flow, crusting in a brown craquelure at the elbows, slippery bright red at his hands and fingertips, the length of each forearm punctuated by dark clotting rivulets.
___Paul was beyond words. He only moaned pitifully as I approached, grimacing and averting his eyes submissively. He whimpered, growled, wept. Urine pooled beneath his fat body. The blood began to pulse more rapidly from between his fingertips. I couldn't feel sympathy; in my mind's eye, I saw him slamming the butt of the gun repeatedly against the werehyena's muzzle as she struggled to drag her bullet-addled body away from his abuse. A low growl rattled in the back of my throat, species indistinct, as I tensed to pounce.
___Paul went very still, his only movement a tendril of snot quivering from one nostril with each tremulous breath. His slaty eyes became wide and wild as I leapt, but he made no effort to fight nor flee. His flabby cheeks shredded, facial bones grating against my fangs before crushing inwards. My claws vanished into the doughy flesh of his abdomen, too soft, tearing but meeting nothing vital. Yellowed globules of fat left an oily residue on my fur, collected in great greasy clumps beneath the hooks of my claws.
___His breaths became convulsive and a high keening issued from his destroyed face as I finally caught the membrane of the peritoneum. Slick, rubbery intestine looped from the tear. At last his hands fell from his throat, feebly grabbing at my pelt in a last instinctive effort of defense. I seized the opportunity to affix my jaws and finish what the hyenas has started; the satisfying snap came with but one firm shake.
___Panting, I backed away from the devastation, Paul barely recognizable as he trembled and choked away his last moments. Yet I hadn't killed him here: he'd walked into the grave when he entered this territory intent to maim, torture and kill other therians. And in thinking this, I came to a very calm, cold realization: so too had the rest of them.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wings
This idea came to me in the car. It possibly has some personal significance. I literally scrawled it down while driving - I do not reccomend this for safety's sake.
Wings
What if, when Icarus flew so close on his waxen wings,
The sun had shied away in shame for having attracted him?
Would he pursue the wind, the stars, the moon instead?
Or would he still spiral to earth
Under the weight of a dream denied?
Oh, you who are brilliant like the sun,
Don't you understand?
I'd have rather you burned my wings
Than gently, carefully clipped them.
Wings
What if, when Icarus flew so close on his waxen wings,
The sun had shied away in shame for having attracted him?
Would he pursue the wind, the stars, the moon instead?
Or would he still spiral to earth
Under the weight of a dream denied?
Oh, you who are brilliant like the sun,
Don't you understand?
I'd have rather you burned my wings
Than gently, carefully clipped them.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
My Pride, My Pain - Excerpt
This brief excerpt from "My Pride, My Pain" was initially posted on All The Little Branches in the text-based RPG "Tower," topic "I Know Why The Caged Bird Screams." The character, Samanya, is a 42 year old male Rwandan therianthrope, Tutsi in ethnicity, werelion in strain. Without giving away too much plot, it is set during the Rwandan genocide in 1994. This segment differs from what would appear in the actual novel as at the end of this passage, Samanya is transported to Tower (hence being frightened when he turns around). On a more serious and not plot-related note, although this piece is fictional, the gruesome events very closely mimic what occurred in Rwanda in 1994 while the international community stood by and did nothing. You may read this and frown upon the vivid violent descriptions, but keep in mind that people truly lived through (and died through) this while we in the Western world turned a blind eye and deaf ear.
Samanya crouched in silent horror at the margins of the town, form hidden by the shadows of dusk and the thick trunk of a acacia tree as the chorus of terrified screams drowned out any quiet sounds his feet may have made on the twigs and grass. The town he had once called his own, so many years ago, was under attack from the Hutu. They arrived in overcrowded military trucks, nearly heaped atop each other as they waved their machetes and shouted popular hate speech like, Death to all Tutsi cockroaches! The villagers scattered like antelope at the sight, some attempting to flee into the tree line only to be cut down by machine gun fire. Many ran into the nearest house, doomed by the same terror-driven mindlessness that made young girls run up staircases to no possible escape in 80's horror flicks.
The werelion heard men shouting in Kinyarwanda, soldiers barking out orders to subordinates and plainclothes Hutu citizens as they moved like hungry predators from house to house, busting down doors and dragging the inhabitants screeching into the streets. Some resisted violently, fighting back with kitchen knives, household objects, or even frantically beating fists. Others cowered, tears streaming down their dark cheeks, begging and crying to be spared. Regardless of the behavior, the reaction was the same: they were butchered by machete, left in bleeding, gasping piles in the streets. The thirsty ground drank up the blood, feeding red - endless red, too much red - to the small gardens and sparse grass.
Samanya watched as an elderly man, blind and hunchbacked, was shoved to the ground by a Hutu extremist. The assailant looked like a simple farmer, but wielded his machete with the viciousness of a rabid beast. The old man did not shout nor fight back, just curled on the ground keening like a wounded child, as the blade's blows rained down upon him. Samanya could hear the crunch of his brittle old bones breaking, his sagging flesh splitting wide and hanging so that angry red gashes spilled great spurts of blood into the streets. It sprayed across the forearms and chest of the Hutu man, staining his clothing. The blood, paired with the wildness in his eyes, reminded Samanya of a predator with a kill. But unlike a predator, the man's eyes were not calm, calculating, and unemotional - they were crazed by a vengeful madness unique to the human animal.
A high pitched wail caught Samanya's attention. A beautiful young Tutsi woman, probably only fifteen or sixteen years old, screamed in child-like horror as she was wrenched out of the protective arms of her father. Men restrained him with cruel laughter and jackals' grins as their sergeant tore away the girl's clothing, obscenely exposing her virgin body. He shoved his machete to throat, forcing her head up into the air so high that her own tears nearly ran back into her eyes. The man groped around in his pants, pulling his manhood free and pulling one of the girl's legs up around his waist while she whimpered pleas to be released. Samanya looked away, wincing as her quiet begging turned into screams of agony. Her father cried out as well, helpless to do anything but watch as his daughter was raped.
These people should have meant nothing to him. They had driven him away, persecuted him and his family, even killed one of his sons. Yet as he listened to the cries all around him, the quiet trilling of dusk insects drowned out by a symphony of suffering, he could not bear to stand by and do nothing. He was not like them, and though this had brought him much pain in life, it could bring an advantage; he was faster, stronger, and would not fall so readily from injuries. Though he was reluctant, torn between his loyalty & duty to his family and this current moral dilemma, Samanya said a quiet prayer to his ancestors and started to Change.
He was experienced and skilled enough that he could change quickly and seamlessly, and with all of the madness in the air, it was unlikely that anyone would feel the hot electric prickle of his energy in the darkness. Dark fur flowed over his skin in a wave, a feeling like insects creeping through his flesh. His fingers shortened, large hooked claws pushing aside his frail human nails so that they fell to litter the dry grass below. The long bones of his thighs shortened as the short bones of his feet lengthened, forcing him on to all fours. The dim light of the fading day soon became brilliant illumination as the feline tapetum lucidum ((Funny side note: I originally typed "corpus luteum," which is hilariously wrong if you know your anatomy)) formed behind his retina. His nose could now smell the situation in detail more graphic than he'd have preferred, the reek of ruptured entrails, broken marrow bones, and so much blood overwhelming him. He shook his head in distaste, newly formed mane flowing and the deadlocks hanging at his nape slapping against the strong muscles of his leonine shoulders.
Samanya advanced with confidence now, his massive predatory forum stalking towards the village sinister, not indicating any of the Christ symbolism that better suited his theriotype and noble intentions. No one took notice, too absorbed in the horror of it all to focus on anything else but their suffering or rage. The girl who had been raped had stopped screaming long ago, slumped to the earth gurgling her last breaths through a slit throat, her torn genitals violated and bleeding. Samanya looked at her with sadness in his one good eye, and in her far-gone state, she reached out and ran her fingers over his coat as he passed with a dazed and awestruck smile. They were already growing cold and stiff against his skin.
A baby squalled in harmony with a woman's frantic screams for mercy, and this caught the therianthrope's attention. An armed man was trying to pull the baby from her arms, and the two played a vicious tug of war with its fragile body. The mother's eyes were frantic with terror and fury, and Samanya saw in her face the same desperation he'd seen on his wife's when their son was shot. The man raised his machete, readying to chop the child free of its mother's hands, or else her hands free of its body - who knew. Samanya launched into action, hitting the militant from behind with paws digging into his shoulders such that he buckled under the weight of the beast. The werelion sunk his fangs into the back of the man's skull, the crunch of bone coming too easily with his strength.
The woman screamed at the sight of the terrible predator that was her savior, clutching her bruised infant to her chest, and something in the quality of that scream drew attention from a nearby Hutu. Samanya felt the machete hit his shoulder, chopping away some of his long hair before biting into the skin. He roared, unhooking his teeth from his quarry, and turned to face his attacker... and what he found behind him frightened him more than the genocide.
Samanya crouched in silent horror at the margins of the town, form hidden by the shadows of dusk and the thick trunk of a acacia tree as the chorus of terrified screams drowned out any quiet sounds his feet may have made on the twigs and grass. The town he had once called his own, so many years ago, was under attack from the Hutu. They arrived in overcrowded military trucks, nearly heaped atop each other as they waved their machetes and shouted popular hate speech like, Death to all Tutsi cockroaches! The villagers scattered like antelope at the sight, some attempting to flee into the tree line only to be cut down by machine gun fire. Many ran into the nearest house, doomed by the same terror-driven mindlessness that made young girls run up staircases to no possible escape in 80's horror flicks.
The werelion heard men shouting in Kinyarwanda, soldiers barking out orders to subordinates and plainclothes Hutu citizens as they moved like hungry predators from house to house, busting down doors and dragging the inhabitants screeching into the streets. Some resisted violently, fighting back with kitchen knives, household objects, or even frantically beating fists. Others cowered, tears streaming down their dark cheeks, begging and crying to be spared. Regardless of the behavior, the reaction was the same: they were butchered by machete, left in bleeding, gasping piles in the streets. The thirsty ground drank up the blood, feeding red - endless red, too much red - to the small gardens and sparse grass.
Samanya watched as an elderly man, blind and hunchbacked, was shoved to the ground by a Hutu extremist. The assailant looked like a simple farmer, but wielded his machete with the viciousness of a rabid beast. The old man did not shout nor fight back, just curled on the ground keening like a wounded child, as the blade's blows rained down upon him. Samanya could hear the crunch of his brittle old bones breaking, his sagging flesh splitting wide and hanging so that angry red gashes spilled great spurts of blood into the streets. It sprayed across the forearms and chest of the Hutu man, staining his clothing. The blood, paired with the wildness in his eyes, reminded Samanya of a predator with a kill. But unlike a predator, the man's eyes were not calm, calculating, and unemotional - they were crazed by a vengeful madness unique to the human animal.
A high pitched wail caught Samanya's attention. A beautiful young Tutsi woman, probably only fifteen or sixteen years old, screamed in child-like horror as she was wrenched out of the protective arms of her father. Men restrained him with cruel laughter and jackals' grins as their sergeant tore away the girl's clothing, obscenely exposing her virgin body. He shoved his machete to throat, forcing her head up into the air so high that her own tears nearly ran back into her eyes. The man groped around in his pants, pulling his manhood free and pulling one of the girl's legs up around his waist while she whimpered pleas to be released. Samanya looked away, wincing as her quiet begging turned into screams of agony. Her father cried out as well, helpless to do anything but watch as his daughter was raped.
These people should have meant nothing to him. They had driven him away, persecuted him and his family, even killed one of his sons. Yet as he listened to the cries all around him, the quiet trilling of dusk insects drowned out by a symphony of suffering, he could not bear to stand by and do nothing. He was not like them, and though this had brought him much pain in life, it could bring an advantage; he was faster, stronger, and would not fall so readily from injuries. Though he was reluctant, torn between his loyalty & duty to his family and this current moral dilemma, Samanya said a quiet prayer to his ancestors and started to Change.
He was experienced and skilled enough that he could change quickly and seamlessly, and with all of the madness in the air, it was unlikely that anyone would feel the hot electric prickle of his energy in the darkness. Dark fur flowed over his skin in a wave, a feeling like insects creeping through his flesh. His fingers shortened, large hooked claws pushing aside his frail human nails so that they fell to litter the dry grass below. The long bones of his thighs shortened as the short bones of his feet lengthened, forcing him on to all fours. The dim light of the fading day soon became brilliant illumination as the feline tapetum lucidum ((Funny side note: I originally typed "corpus luteum," which is hilariously wrong if you know your anatomy)) formed behind his retina. His nose could now smell the situation in detail more graphic than he'd have preferred, the reek of ruptured entrails, broken marrow bones, and so much blood overwhelming him. He shook his head in distaste, newly formed mane flowing and the deadlocks hanging at his nape slapping against the strong muscles of his leonine shoulders.
Samanya advanced with confidence now, his massive predatory forum stalking towards the village sinister, not indicating any of the Christ symbolism that better suited his theriotype and noble intentions. No one took notice, too absorbed in the horror of it all to focus on anything else but their suffering or rage. The girl who had been raped had stopped screaming long ago, slumped to the earth gurgling her last breaths through a slit throat, her torn genitals violated and bleeding. Samanya looked at her with sadness in his one good eye, and in her far-gone state, she reached out and ran her fingers over his coat as he passed with a dazed and awestruck smile. They were already growing cold and stiff against his skin.
A baby squalled in harmony with a woman's frantic screams for mercy, and this caught the therianthrope's attention. An armed man was trying to pull the baby from her arms, and the two played a vicious tug of war with its fragile body. The mother's eyes were frantic with terror and fury, and Samanya saw in her face the same desperation he'd seen on his wife's when their son was shot. The man raised his machete, readying to chop the child free of its mother's hands, or else her hands free of its body - who knew. Samanya launched into action, hitting the militant from behind with paws digging into his shoulders such that he buckled under the weight of the beast. The werelion sunk his fangs into the back of the man's skull, the crunch of bone coming too easily with his strength.
The woman screamed at the sight of the terrible predator that was her savior, clutching her bruised infant to her chest, and something in the quality of that scream drew attention from a nearby Hutu. Samanya felt the machete hit his shoulder, chopping away some of his long hair before biting into the skin. He roared, unhooking his teeth from his quarry, and turned to face his attacker... and what he found behind him frightened him more than the genocide.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Is it?
I'm on a illegitimate writing kick lately, sorry for all this tripe...
Is it…?
Is it your hand, big and warm, dwarfing and enveloping mine?
Is it the contented purr of your snoring in the dark, quiet hours of early morning?
Is it slick soap suds clinging to the dark curls of your chest hair in the shower?
Is it the tight curve of your body and mine beneath soft sheets?
Is it the way your smile pulls one from behind my lips no matter what my mood?
Is it your eyes, quiet and tender, when they meet mine?
Is it how there’s no one else in the restaurant when you talk about your day?
Is it your toothbrush lying next to mine on the bathroom counter?
Is it your great strong arms with their gentle embrace?
Is it lazy weekend mornings, sunlight striping the pillows through the blinds?
Is it finishing one another’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes?
Is it walking side by side in spring under the green oak canopies?
Is it stretching out half-asleep on the couch watching movies?
Is it forgetting to ever fight, criticize, take for granted?
Is it…?
Is it…?
Is it your hand, big and warm, dwarfing and enveloping mine?
Is it the contented purr of your snoring in the dark, quiet hours of early morning?
Is it slick soap suds clinging to the dark curls of your chest hair in the shower?
Is it the tight curve of your body and mine beneath soft sheets?
Is it the way your smile pulls one from behind my lips no matter what my mood?
Is it your eyes, quiet and tender, when they meet mine?
Is it how there’s no one else in the restaurant when you talk about your day?
Is it your toothbrush lying next to mine on the bathroom counter?
Is it your great strong arms with their gentle embrace?
Is it lazy weekend mornings, sunlight striping the pillows through the blinds?
Is it finishing one another’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes?
Is it walking side by side in spring under the green oak canopies?
Is it stretching out half-asleep on the couch watching movies?
Is it forgetting to ever fight, criticize, take for granted?
Is it…?
Saturday, April 25, 2009
WIP - Kennel Madness
I don't usually post works in progress, but I have this jotted on a little scrap of paper and don't particularly wish to lose it altogether. So, here's a rare glimpse at some severely unfinished work.
Kennel Madness
The kennel is approximately twice my length and once my width indoors, the outdoor run not much longer. Its floor is concrete and smells of bleach and urine; it is rough beneath my paws and makes my hips ache dully when I lie down even through the thin cushion of my ragged blanket. I have one old rope that tastes like ten other dogs' saliva through the detergent, and a stainless steel bowl, the sound of which hurts my ears on the frequent occasions that I accidentally knock it across the floor. It is very easy to tip this bowl in my daily pacings, which are all I can do to quell the relentless desire to move in this, my tiny stake of the world.
When I am excited, I can not run, so I circle, leap, bark away my energy. The people who look through the chain link of my kennel door make disapproving faces; sometimes I hear their pulses skip and smell their adrenaline surge with fear. They don't understand my enthusiasm just as I don't understand their quiet vocalizations and tense movements as they pass my by. Their fear makes me uneasy and frustrated, so much so that I start to stand at the back of my kennel instead of the front. My tail and ears droop and I avoid their gaze, the hair on my back prickling.
The other dogs are uneasy as well; individually, their barks may indicate aggression, loneliness, excitement, boredom, but it all just blends into one great din reflecting of the terror that breeds in this place. It isn't the wild fear that many of us experienced when our masters abandoned us, or when we found ourselves alone in the chaos of the streets. It is a slow dread that eats at you like a cancer with every passing day, the relentless disquietude of not knowing.
Kennel Madness
The kennel is approximately twice my length and once my width indoors, the outdoor run not much longer. Its floor is concrete and smells of bleach and urine; it is rough beneath my paws and makes my hips ache dully when I lie down even through the thin cushion of my ragged blanket. I have one old rope that tastes like ten other dogs' saliva through the detergent, and a stainless steel bowl, the sound of which hurts my ears on the frequent occasions that I accidentally knock it across the floor. It is very easy to tip this bowl in my daily pacings, which are all I can do to quell the relentless desire to move in this, my tiny stake of the world.
When I am excited, I can not run, so I circle, leap, bark away my energy. The people who look through the chain link of my kennel door make disapproving faces; sometimes I hear their pulses skip and smell their adrenaline surge with fear. They don't understand my enthusiasm just as I don't understand their quiet vocalizations and tense movements as they pass my by. Their fear makes me uneasy and frustrated, so much so that I start to stand at the back of my kennel instead of the front. My tail and ears droop and I avoid their gaze, the hair on my back prickling.
The other dogs are uneasy as well; individually, their barks may indicate aggression, loneliness, excitement, boredom, but it all just blends into one great din reflecting of the terror that breeds in this place. It isn't the wild fear that many of us experienced when our masters abandoned us, or when we found ourselves alone in the chaos of the streets. It is a slow dread that eats at you like a cancer with every passing day, the relentless disquietude of not knowing.
Life
I am once again writing a poem for my student observations. The topic assigned to me by the student this time was "Life." It is very broad and vague, so I decided to tackle it in the biological sense with juxtaposed images in each line to point out that we tend to create prejudices towards organisms and life processes based on their appeal to us even though, at the end of the day, they're all just "life." I also figured I'd try my hand at ryming, though I still can't get a pesistent number of syllabols in each stanza. I'm not overwhelmingly pleased with this, so it's basically just filler to make this look like an active blog to everyone who isn't reading it (haha).
Bios
I am bacteria that kills
and mold for penicillin pills.
I am the maggots in the tomb,
the stirring in a mother's womb.
I am a placid cow chewing cud,
a voracious parasite drinking blood.
I am the flower and the weed,
the mighty tree and tiny seed.
I am the humble crawling snail
and the majestic singing whale.
I am the rabbit's fleet paws
and the fox's hungry jaws.
I am a tigress nursing her cubs,
a wasp who lays eggs in live grubs.
I am the spider you crush in fright
and the lover that you hold at night.
I am vagrants sleeping in subway stations
and leaders of the greatest nations.
I start before you draw first breath
and briefly persist after "death."
I am vicious.
I am precious.
I am life.
Bios
I am bacteria that kills
and mold for penicillin pills.
I am the maggots in the tomb,
the stirring in a mother's womb.
I am a placid cow chewing cud,
a voracious parasite drinking blood.
I am the flower and the weed,
the mighty tree and tiny seed.
I am the humble crawling snail
and the majestic singing whale.
I am the rabbit's fleet paws
and the fox's hungry jaws.
I am a tigress nursing her cubs,
a wasp who lays eggs in live grubs.
I am the spider you crush in fright
and the lover that you hold at night.
I am vagrants sleeping in subway stations
and leaders of the greatest nations.
I start before you draw first breath
and briefly persist after "death."
I am vicious.
I am precious.
I am life.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
It's been a while...
Ouch, school sure does cut in to one's creative time, doesn't it? I haven't been able to write, much less post writing in this blog, in ages. I'm rusty as a result, but here's a couple (very) un-polished shorts:
Earth Worms and Eastern Philosophy
___The rain slapped the gritty sidewalk until the fallen tree buds and cigarette stubs had been transformed into saturated, amorphous blobs. Everything was damp, dark but for the pale, writhing forms of earthworms driven to their demise by the deluge. They writhed in puddles, curling and lashing like whips, or stretched their bodies long, thin and prone across the ground. Some were waterlogged, their tissues gravid with moisture, barely able to move. Others had perished under foot traffic, mashed like putty, ground into the pavement.
___The man walking ahead of me struck a fat worm with the heel of his shoe as he passed, oblivious to the casual brutality. The worm's body burst like an overfilled garbage bag, primitive inner workings spilling across the pavement. Despite the poor beast's alien form - serpentine and seemingly so far below ours - there was something grimly familiar in its throes, a certain agony in the way its dying body writhed and shuddered. There was a profound and unmistakable violence in the act of what, for the worm's killer, ammounted to a simple lapse in mindfulness.
Untitled Sap
Increasingly, they slept together in one or the other's bed, taking turns; a sort of psuedo live-in situation, playing house with no strings attached. When this routine first started, he used to relish her lingering scent on his pillows and linens, a welcomed spectre of their romance. Increasingly, however, he noticed that whether she was in his bed or he in hers, the smell had mingled, become indistinct. Soon it wasn't his scent or her scent, but something new - their scent. And to him, it smelled like home.
Earth Worms and Eastern Philosophy
___The rain slapped the gritty sidewalk until the fallen tree buds and cigarette stubs had been transformed into saturated, amorphous blobs. Everything was damp, dark but for the pale, writhing forms of earthworms driven to their demise by the deluge. They writhed in puddles, curling and lashing like whips, or stretched their bodies long, thin and prone across the ground. Some were waterlogged, their tissues gravid with moisture, barely able to move. Others had perished under foot traffic, mashed like putty, ground into the pavement.
___The man walking ahead of me struck a fat worm with the heel of his shoe as he passed, oblivious to the casual brutality. The worm's body burst like an overfilled garbage bag, primitive inner workings spilling across the pavement. Despite the poor beast's alien form - serpentine and seemingly so far below ours - there was something grimly familiar in its throes, a certain agony in the way its dying body writhed and shuddered. There was a profound and unmistakable violence in the act of what, for the worm's killer, ammounted to a simple lapse in mindfulness.
Untitled Sap
Increasingly, they slept together in one or the other's bed, taking turns; a sort of psuedo live-in situation, playing house with no strings attached. When this routine first started, he used to relish her lingering scent on his pillows and linens, a welcomed spectre of their romance. Increasingly, however, he noticed that whether she was in his bed or he in hers, the smell had mingled, become indistinct. Soon it wasn't his scent or her scent, but something new - their scent. And to him, it smelled like home.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Green Green Grass
In one of the classrooms I am observing for my teaching degree, the students are working on a poetry unit. As a fun activity to involve the college students observing, the English teacher involved us in a project where everyone in the class write a poem topic on a slip of paper, and the papers are drawn out of a hat. Whatever topic you draw, you must write a poem incorporating that theme. My topic is "Green Green Grass." Since I'm incapable of writing almost anything that isn't a dark perversion of theme, I of course wrote about... well. You'll see.
Green Green Grass
In England black is the color of mourning;
In Japan, they weep in white.
Standing in this green green grass
I know Montana's crepe is green.
In Appalachia there's an old wives' tale:
"Grass won't grow where blood was spilled."
They can not see this meadow
From the Appalachian Mountains.
A meadowlark is perched atop a
Green green stalk of prairie grass.
Beneath its cheerful song: the earth
Where the last of the bison fell.
A pronghorn nibbles tender shoots
Of green green grass and sage that
Was nourished by the devastation
Of smallbox, conflict, hunger.
The Little Bighorn Battlefield
Is halcyon, verdant, beautiful.
But here the peaceful rolling prairie
Is the color of pain and sorrow.
The rustling grass is whispering
A tale of cruelty and hate.
It parts revealing solemn stones
That reveal man's darkest deeds.
"Here lies a Cheyenne brave
who fell defending his people."
"Here lies a U.S. soldier
Who fell fulfilling his duty."
Yet I see a little Crow girl
With laughter like a birdsong
Playing in the green green grass
With a little white tourist boy.
And I think that green might also be
The color of hope.
Green Green Grass
In England black is the color of mourning;
In Japan, they weep in white.
Standing in this green green grass
I know Montana's crepe is green.
In Appalachia there's an old wives' tale:
"Grass won't grow where blood was spilled."
They can not see this meadow
From the Appalachian Mountains.
A meadowlark is perched atop a
Green green stalk of prairie grass.
Beneath its cheerful song: the earth
Where the last of the bison fell.
A pronghorn nibbles tender shoots
Of green green grass and sage that
Was nourished by the devastation
Of smallbox, conflict, hunger.
The Little Bighorn Battlefield
Is halcyon, verdant, beautiful.
But here the peaceful rolling prairie
Is the color of pain and sorrow.
The rustling grass is whispering
A tale of cruelty and hate.
It parts revealing solemn stones
That reveal man's darkest deeds.
"Here lies a Cheyenne brave
who fell defending his people."
"Here lies a U.S. soldier
Who fell fulfilling his duty."
Yet I see a little Crow girl
With laughter like a birdsong
Playing in the green green grass
With a little white tourist boy.
And I think that green might also be
The color of hope.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I'll Love You Until The End of Tonight
___When people lost their virginity on television, it was never like this.
___The room was darkened beyond what could be called "intimate;" it did not seem a setting to reveal one's self, but rather to hide. He could smell stale incense covering stale marijuana, old laundry, a musty wan of a place not cleaned often enough nor with sufficient scrutiny. Her bed was a messy tangle of wrinkled sheets and worn comforters, too low to the ground and creaky when she settled down on its lumpy mattress. He could tell from the way she moved to the bed that she was attempting to be seductive, but there was a lazy impassivity to her sashay, like she'd done it enough times to be apathetic.
___Before today, he had never seen a woman nude in person. She did not have the picture-perfect airbrushed body like the models in the magazines; her thighs were pale and striped with stretchmarks, her belly doughy with a dark birth mark by her hip. Her breasts lacked that surgical roundness and perk; they sagged softly, one nipple erect from the cold and the other sluggish to react. It wasn't that she was ugly - merely average, merely real.
___He was nervous when he pulled off his shirt, unbuttoned his pants; the TV virgins were always so suave and sure of themselves. He still had his wool socks on, itchy and smelling like sweat, and his erection pulled awkwardly against the fabric of his boxers. When he knelt down on the matress beside her, he wasn't sure how to start, awkwardly groping at her unfamiliar breasts while she tongued his mouth indifferently. Her fingertips were cold against his shaft as she laid back and he awkwardly positioned himself over her.
___She spread her legs like some sick caricature of those cute Hallmark cartoons with amorous arms opened wide: I love you THIS much! And when he ground his hips to hers, it was the same shallow promise he'd fulfill again and again for the rest of his life: I'll love you until the end oftime tonight.
___The room was darkened beyond what could be called "intimate;" it did not seem a setting to reveal one's self, but rather to hide. He could smell stale incense covering stale marijuana, old laundry, a musty wan of a place not cleaned often enough nor with sufficient scrutiny. Her bed was a messy tangle of wrinkled sheets and worn comforters, too low to the ground and creaky when she settled down on its lumpy mattress. He could tell from the way she moved to the bed that she was attempting to be seductive, but there was a lazy impassivity to her sashay, like she'd done it enough times to be apathetic.
___Before today, he had never seen a woman nude in person. She did not have the picture-perfect airbrushed body like the models in the magazines; her thighs were pale and striped with stretchmarks, her belly doughy with a dark birth mark by her hip. Her breasts lacked that surgical roundness and perk; they sagged softly, one nipple erect from the cold and the other sluggish to react. It wasn't that she was ugly - merely average, merely real.
___He was nervous when he pulled off his shirt, unbuttoned his pants; the TV virgins were always so suave and sure of themselves. He still had his wool socks on, itchy and smelling like sweat, and his erection pulled awkwardly against the fabric of his boxers. When he knelt down on the matress beside her, he wasn't sure how to start, awkwardly groping at her unfamiliar breasts while she tongued his mouth indifferently. Her fingertips were cold against his shaft as she laid back and he awkwardly positioned himself over her.
___She spread her legs like some sick caricature of those cute Hallmark cartoons with amorous arms opened wide: I love you THIS much! And when he ground his hips to hers, it was the same shallow promise he'd fulfill again and again for the rest of his life: I'll love you until the end of
Monday, February 23, 2009
Anthem
I really wish that this was fictional writing like most everything else in this blog.
I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.
Sharon drove trucks her whole life;
Back and fourth over hundreds of miles
She saw our entire country and
Loved what she saw.
She worked and saved and slaved
To meet the meritocracy's demands
And finally could afford her lands:
No electricty, no plumbing but hers.
She bred & sold hoofstock;
(Nothing I could agree with ethically
But I could admire her hard work).
She embodied the elusive "American Dream"
That says we must start from the bottom
And struggle to the top if we want
The more elusive happiness.
Land of the free, land of the free
She was living in the land of the free.
Sharon was a lesbian and her partner
Died of breast cancer.
They'd built the farm together
Like a classic old-West pioneer couple.
I say partner because love is not love
In the land of the free
Unless it is sterile and Christian
So they were never wed.
But still she loved her country
Because she was living in the land of the free.
They say those despots in sweltering, faraway places
Will impose their will
Take your land
Crush your freedoms.
Who is the despot who came to Sharon's farm
The one she worked for all her life
The place where she built her dreams
And kept alive the spirit of her dearly departed?
Who was it who whispered the curse of Progress
The sound of which is not marked by marching forward footsteps
But by the wails of dreams trampled in its wake?
Eminent Domain, they call it
Because in America, we use fancy words
As a mask for our disgraces.
Because in America
A road or strip mall or housing development
Is more important than the American Dream.
Land of the free, land of the free
Unless you are some trifling little person
With a farm and a memory and a dream
Then you're just a casualty donning fresh pavement.
Yeah, I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.
I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.
Sharon drove trucks her whole life;
Back and fourth over hundreds of miles
She saw our entire country and
Loved what she saw.
She worked and saved and slaved
To meet the meritocracy's demands
And finally could afford her lands:
No electricty, no plumbing but hers.
She bred & sold hoofstock;
(Nothing I could agree with ethically
But I could admire her hard work).
She embodied the elusive "American Dream"
That says we must start from the bottom
And struggle to the top if we want
The more elusive happiness.
Land of the free, land of the free
She was living in the land of the free.
Sharon was a lesbian and her partner
Died of breast cancer.
They'd built the farm together
Like a classic old-West pioneer couple.
I say partner because love is not love
In the land of the free
Unless it is sterile and Christian
So they were never wed.
But still she loved her country
Because she was living in the land of the free.
They say those despots in sweltering, faraway places
Will impose their will
Take your land
Crush your freedoms.
Who is the despot who came to Sharon's farm
The one she worked for all her life
The place where she built her dreams
And kept alive the spirit of her dearly departed?
Who was it who whispered the curse of Progress
The sound of which is not marked by marching forward footsteps
But by the wails of dreams trampled in its wake?
Eminent Domain, they call it
Because in America, we use fancy words
As a mask for our disgraces.
Because in America
A road or strip mall or housing development
Is more important than the American Dream.
Land of the free, land of the free
Unless you are some trifling little person
With a farm and a memory and a dream
Then you're just a casualty donning fresh pavement.
Yeah, I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Ownership
I haven't produced any writing in a while now but I had the idea for this short little piece while driving home from school and had to punch it out. It is a VERY rough draft, but I'm quite pleased with it overall.
When they had started dating last year, he'd pulled the ornate silver ring from his middle finger and placed it in the palm of her hand. It was so large that she probably could have fit three of her fingers into it; he gave her a chain so that she could wear it around her neck. "This way," he explained, "you'll always be reminded that you belong to me." At the time she had thought this was very romantic, but more and more she could see the ring for what it was: territorial pissings, a claim of ownership. The symbolism of the chain and that large heavy ring that struck her in the chest with every step could not possibly have been more blatant.
She'd removed the chain once to take a shower and neglected to return it before heading out to the movies with a group of friends. When she arrived at his apartment later that night, he'd towered over her until the wall at her back seemed less imposing and demanded to know who she was with and why she wasn't wearing his ring. Now she wore it every day, almost afraid to remove it for even an instant.
He'd never threatened her outright with violence, but the way his massive hand swallowed hers whenever he clasped it seemed like a reminder that he could make her vanish just as easily. Something in the way his body pinned hers to the bed when they made love - or more aptly fucked - made her heart pound frantically against her ribs like a caged bird. When he forced his mouth over hers, choked her with a probing tongue, she felt like she was drowning. More and more, when in darkened rooms he trapped her in his embrace and whispered, "I love you," she got the impression that what he actually meant was, "I own you."
When they had started dating last year, he'd pulled the ornate silver ring from his middle finger and placed it in the palm of her hand. It was so large that she probably could have fit three of her fingers into it; he gave her a chain so that she could wear it around her neck. "This way," he explained, "you'll always be reminded that you belong to me." At the time she had thought this was very romantic, but more and more she could see the ring for what it was: territorial pissings, a claim of ownership. The symbolism of the chain and that large heavy ring that struck her in the chest with every step could not possibly have been more blatant.
She'd removed the chain once to take a shower and neglected to return it before heading out to the movies with a group of friends. When she arrived at his apartment later that night, he'd towered over her until the wall at her back seemed less imposing and demanded to know who she was with and why she wasn't wearing his ring. Now she wore it every day, almost afraid to remove it for even an instant.
He'd never threatened her outright with violence, but the way his massive hand swallowed hers whenever he clasped it seemed like a reminder that he could make her vanish just as easily. Something in the way his body pinned hers to the bed when they made love - or more aptly fucked - made her heart pound frantically against her ribs like a caged bird. When he forced his mouth over hers, choked her with a probing tongue, she felt like she was drowning. More and more, when in darkened rooms he trapped her in his embrace and whispered, "I love you," she got the impression that what he actually meant was, "I own you."
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