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.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
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."
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Socks
Here's a fun experiment - free-flow of thoughts with disregard to grammar from a perspective that isn't your own. I'm picturing, personally, a really tall, quiet, perhaps not too attractive and very rural looking guy with big, rough hands and a penchant for violence - what do you think?
___She's lying down next to me on the bed with her soft white skin all bare and glistening with sweat. I can hear her breathing and it's that deep, rumbling, contented purr that women get sometimes when the sex is good. It's a dangerous kind of breathing because women think an orgasm means eternal love half the time, and I reckon that's about what's going through her head the way her fingertips are slowly tracing up and down my forearm. It kindof tickles, kindof snags those coarse dark hairs that look primal next to her smooth porcelain flesh.
___I don't like this petting business, makes me feel a bit like a dog, which ain't right because she's the one with the dog look in her big brown eyes. It's a pleading hungry look, a sad desperate animal look, a sniveling seeking affection look. I really don't like that; it means she expects me to say something sappy-sweet now, like I love her, and give her one of those tacky little kisses on the forehead that women get all stupid about.
___Me, I'm just wondering how long I can keep this up before she goes from puppy love to snarling bitch and kicks me out of her apartment, me hallway-standing like a damn fool in my boxers with a ball of clothing in my arms, her howling like a banshee while the neighbors make no effort to politely look away.
___Probably won't get both of my socks back, never do. Lonely single gals like her, they probably have a whole heap of lonely single socks in their apartment, all different kinds of socks from all different kinds of men. Because they're just hoping to find a pair of socks that'll stay for more than just the night.
___She's lying down next to me on the bed with her soft white skin all bare and glistening with sweat. I can hear her breathing and it's that deep, rumbling, contented purr that women get sometimes when the sex is good. It's a dangerous kind of breathing because women think an orgasm means eternal love half the time, and I reckon that's about what's going through her head the way her fingertips are slowly tracing up and down my forearm. It kindof tickles, kindof snags those coarse dark hairs that look primal next to her smooth porcelain flesh.
___I don't like this petting business, makes me feel a bit like a dog, which ain't right because she's the one with the dog look in her big brown eyes. It's a pleading hungry look, a sad desperate animal look, a sniveling seeking affection look. I really don't like that; it means she expects me to say something sappy-sweet now, like I love her, and give her one of those tacky little kisses on the forehead that women get all stupid about.
___Me, I'm just wondering how long I can keep this up before she goes from puppy love to snarling bitch and kicks me out of her apartment, me hallway-standing like a damn fool in my boxers with a ball of clothing in my arms, her howling like a banshee while the neighbors make no effort to politely look away.
___Probably won't get both of my socks back, never do. Lonely single gals like her, they probably have a whole heap of lonely single socks in their apartment, all different kinds of socks from all different kinds of men. Because they're just hoping to find a pair of socks that'll stay for more than just the night.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Songspired! "You Look Like I Need A Drink"
Songspiration – writing inspired by music, incorporating lyrics! This is based on "You Look Like I Need A Drink" by Against Me! Lyrics are italicised. It starts with lyrics, ends with lyrics, and has some thrown in the middle.
In the closest alley,
in the first doorway,
he pushed up against her
and closed his eyes.
___The street lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, throwing shadows of trashcans and cardboard boxes long across the filthy concrete. It was late enough that even the hustle and bustle of the city had died down sufficiently for long stretches of near-silence, in which the only sounds were the rustle of crumpled newspaper on pavement whenever the wind blew, or the wail of a distant siren. With her body pressed tightly to his, he could hear her soft exhalations and feel the strumming of her heartbeat against his chest. His fingers traced her spine through the thin fabric of a well worn blouse as he touched his forehead to hers. Her breath was tainted by the reek of alcohol as she craned her neck to kiss him, groping at the front of his jeans. He shuddered, pulling back enough to gingerly stroke her jaw line with his fingertips. He said,
___“This is probably the worst decision that I’ve ever made,” brushing her lips with one thumb as she pushed her back against the door until it yeilded, pulling him into a dimly lit hallway with a sly grin. Behind her tired, bloodshot eyes and teeth discolored by negligence, he fancied he saw something beautiful as she laughed and smiled, and said,
___“I’m sure you do this all the time, right?”
___Through the thin walls, the sound of a baby's crying was audible; it did not cry out for long as though already resigned to being ignored, and they disregarded it in turn. In the stairwell, walls pocked with damage and scrawled with graffiti, he ground his hips to hers. Bathed in wan and flickering light, she wrapped her legs around his waist so that her ratty little black skirt rode up to leave her pale ass bare. Their mouths were sloppily fixed together, too rushed and unfamiliar. An erection only marginally firm from drunkenness prodded blindly against her groin, a friction of jeans against scant lace. She pulled her mouth from his, lipstick smeared half across her cheek to match the runny mascara that darkened the corners of her eyes.
___"Wait, wait - let's do some shit first," she rasped into his ear, kissing his earlobe as she spoke. Her nuzzled her neck, thrusting against her once more, and she slapped his chest in protest.
___"Seriously, you said you had some."
___He huffed frustration and pushed back using both hands against the grimy wall, letting her untwine her legs as he felt around in the back pockets of his jeans. The baggie, half-empty, contained a light brown powder that bore the acidic scent of vinegar when he carefully pulled it open. Her eyes were more desirous at the sight of the dope than they had been as they kissed. She reached for the tightly rolled dollar bill clutched between his two fingers like a cigarette, and he pulled away, a face that had been flirtatious now hardened against her.
___"It's my stuff, I hit it first."
___He inserted the rolled bill into his left nostril, lowering his head and raising the baggie until the two met then taking in a quick snort. He withdrew, rubbing his nostril and sniffling, eyes already working towards that distant, glazed look as he extended both in her direction. She went through the motions with rehearsed precision, clearly a regular user, but took a much deeper hit than he had. Her dark brown eyes rolled back in her head and her breath shuddered out in one great rush before she pitched forward. Reflexes slowed by the dope, he reached to catch her arm and missed.
___Down, down, down, so soft of a sound - her head hit the edge of the stairs, bounced once, struck again. There was no bleeding, just a wet pop, and then she sprawled motionless on the floor. Eyes wild with whites showing all around, he knelt beside her in a panic, shaking her thin shoulders in desperation.
___"Get up!" Her head lolled limply, face an expressionless mask. "Get up - please start breathing!"
And the moment will come
when you finally realize
the results of decisions
and choices in your life.
Can you hear it all coming back after you?
In the closest alley,
in the first doorway,
he pushed up against her
and closed his eyes.
___The street lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, throwing shadows of trashcans and cardboard boxes long across the filthy concrete. It was late enough that even the hustle and bustle of the city had died down sufficiently for long stretches of near-silence, in which the only sounds were the rustle of crumpled newspaper on pavement whenever the wind blew, or the wail of a distant siren. With her body pressed tightly to his, he could hear her soft exhalations and feel the strumming of her heartbeat against his chest. His fingers traced her spine through the thin fabric of a well worn blouse as he touched his forehead to hers. Her breath was tainted by the reek of alcohol as she craned her neck to kiss him, groping at the front of his jeans. He shuddered, pulling back enough to gingerly stroke her jaw line with his fingertips. He said,
___“This is probably the worst decision that I’ve ever made,” brushing her lips with one thumb as she pushed her back against the door until it yeilded, pulling him into a dimly lit hallway with a sly grin. Behind her tired, bloodshot eyes and teeth discolored by negligence, he fancied he saw something beautiful as she laughed and smiled, and said,
___“I’m sure you do this all the time, right?”
___Through the thin walls, the sound of a baby's crying was audible; it did not cry out for long as though already resigned to being ignored, and they disregarded it in turn. In the stairwell, walls pocked with damage and scrawled with graffiti, he ground his hips to hers. Bathed in wan and flickering light, she wrapped her legs around his waist so that her ratty little black skirt rode up to leave her pale ass bare. Their mouths were sloppily fixed together, too rushed and unfamiliar. An erection only marginally firm from drunkenness prodded blindly against her groin, a friction of jeans against scant lace. She pulled her mouth from his, lipstick smeared half across her cheek to match the runny mascara that darkened the corners of her eyes.
___"Wait, wait - let's do some shit first," she rasped into his ear, kissing his earlobe as she spoke. Her nuzzled her neck, thrusting against her once more, and she slapped his chest in protest.
___"Seriously, you said you had some."
___He huffed frustration and pushed back using both hands against the grimy wall, letting her untwine her legs as he felt around in the back pockets of his jeans. The baggie, half-empty, contained a light brown powder that bore the acidic scent of vinegar when he carefully pulled it open. Her eyes were more desirous at the sight of the dope than they had been as they kissed. She reached for the tightly rolled dollar bill clutched between his two fingers like a cigarette, and he pulled away, a face that had been flirtatious now hardened against her.
___"It's my stuff, I hit it first."
___He inserted the rolled bill into his left nostril, lowering his head and raising the baggie until the two met then taking in a quick snort. He withdrew, rubbing his nostril and sniffling, eyes already working towards that distant, glazed look as he extended both in her direction. She went through the motions with rehearsed precision, clearly a regular user, but took a much deeper hit than he had. Her dark brown eyes rolled back in her head and her breath shuddered out in one great rush before she pitched forward. Reflexes slowed by the dope, he reached to catch her arm and missed.
___Down, down, down, so soft of a sound - her head hit the edge of the stairs, bounced once, struck again. There was no bleeding, just a wet pop, and then she sprawled motionless on the floor. Eyes wild with whites showing all around, he knelt beside her in a panic, shaking her thin shoulders in desperation.
___"Get up!" Her head lolled limply, face an expressionless mask. "Get up - please start breathing!"
And the moment will come
when you finally realize
the results of decisions
and choices in your life.
Can you hear it all coming back after you?
The (Unwritten) Death of Sreya Bahari
This is half of a larger piece posted at Tower that permitted me to write a very personal 3rd person perspective of the death of a crucial character in my book, Sreya Bahari. Only the aftermath of her death is observed in the book since it is written from the first person perspective of another character, but the moments here from Sreya's perspective are in keeping with what Trent experiences upon entering the territory and finding her.
I considered posting the whole piece, but it is very graphically violent and posting it so publically was against my better judgement. So, this occurs after Sreya has awoken post-skinning on the verge of death. It's still pretty disturbing so if things of this sort do not appeal to you, please reconsider reading. Most of the terminology also probably makes no sense without the background of the rest of the novel. And oh - the full texted started with "Sreya Bahari was not dying... yet." if you are pondering the wording of the last few sentences.
Ok, side notes are over. I'd say enjoy but that's hardly the right word.
___Sreya didn't recall any sensation of opening her eyes, but she found herself staring out at rocks spattered in dried blood through vision narrowed to tunnels by hypoxia nonetheless. The early morning sun filtered down brighter than it ought to on the territory, and it took a moment for her to realize that this was due to an absence of shade; the trees had been burned to blackened spires pointing like accusatory skeletal fingers at the heavens: why us!? There was a haze in the air, a few smoldering embers on the fringes of the rendezvous still leaking feeble clouds of dark smoke - this she heard and smelled more than saw, unable to turn her head to observe the carnage. Perhaps in this aspect, shock was mercy, for the sights all around would have been enough to crush the very soul of a matriarch.
___Her body felt cold and numb, and even to her own senses her heartbeat was weak and erratic, breaths too shallow and gurgling; Sreya mused that, were she brought to Wild Woods, she would be very much concerned about the survival of herself. The flies were aware of it; as the day warmed with the rising sun, they started to gather in swarming hordes, hovering over her body hesitantly as if wondering if they could land without risk. I heard a fly buzz... and she may have laughed ironically had she the strength for it. Any delirious humor was promptly erased as she watched one circle lower, so close to her eye that she could keenly see its iridescent sides shining blue and green in the sunlight. It moved to land, and she reflexively blinked - or should have, but nothing happened. Its feet touched the surface of her eye, tongue probing, antennae twitching. Regurgitated saliva pooled against her cornea, her eye watered with discomfort, but no lid fell in protection. Only then did she remember the sensation of the flint's blade sliding beneath her skin...
___Oh god. Oh GOD! Her frightened eyes rolled artificially wide from the absence of surrounding skin as the fly alighted. They fell over a forearm stripped nearly to muscle, smooth handiwork, the kind you saw of professional furriers. At her naked elbow, bands of striated bright white clung over corded red - was it the ulnar collateral ligament? The realization was so horrific that it stunned her; she did not cry out in pain, didn't tremble or struggle. Who knows if shock would have allowed it, anyways. Instead she floated in precious numbness, immersed in the surreal feeling of her fleshless body slowly dying.
___How many minutes, hours, eternities passed? There was a sudden disturbance in the clan's espiritus that roused her from the nebulous gray of semi-consciousness. The many new energies, filled with fresh confusion, pain, fury,and sorrow, stirred abruptly, filling the air with an uncomfortable sensation akin to invisible hands charged with electricity groping frantically at one's body - like ghosts seeking a host. This milling, tumultuous presence crescendoed as the sound of footsteps became audible on the charred soil. The bloodied, battered holes in her snout where there once had been nostrils sucked in shallow breaths, attempting to smell whomever was approaching. Therian - she could detect wolf, and terror anew sharpened her senses, for this was now a scent she associated with the most profound of traumas in her life. Her muscles trembled, energy fought to rally, but she could not flee, could not fight.
___The increasing cadence of Sreya's frightened heart beats only spirited her more quickly towards death. One lung was collapsed and the other fast approaching the same fate as blood pooled in the recumbent chest cavity. The rising pulse demanded more oxygen, oxygen the body could not provide, and rushed blood to the giant singular wound that her body had become. She could barely register her surroundings as a shadow fell over her, but she growled low in her throat, ready to use the last tattered remnants of her strength to fight back if need be. The muscles of her mouth attempted to pull themselves into a defiant snarl as the werewolf crouched at her side, hands poised over her body to inflict more harm.
___The werewolf... he smelled of hyena, as well. The espiritus calmed in his presence, humming curiously, milling and coiling between them as though confused in their loyalties. He extended one trembling hand, a human hand with elegant dark-skinned fingers, and brushed a tiny scrap of black fur left behind on the back of her hand. Immediate electricity - her senses were flooded with the smell of damp moss, rotting deciduous leaves, the crisp chill of mountain air. This melted to something sweltering and foreign, a feline musk, and now the familiar wan of sun-dried savanna grasses and dung from large herbivores. That was signature to only one therian that she knew; Trent had come to the clan's territory, after all.
___Someone was shouting, a wild, frantic flurry of words, profanity and sobs intermingled. It sounded distant, like someone screaming from the bowels of a cave. Energy heated the air until it felt as though the forest were aflame once more. Her breaths were growing more difficult, her pulse more sluggish. With the narrow field of her vision fading by the moment, she couldn't make sense of what was going on. Sensation was all but gone, but she thought she felt firm hands upon her raw cheeks. Intense dark eyes glossed over with tears and raw with agony slowly dissolved from her sight, and like a spectral whisper despite it being shouted in her face, she heard the words "I love you." She wished she could respond, tried to force the words.
___And then - Sreya Bahari was dying. Her other lung caved. No smell. No sight. No sound. Her pulse stuttered. Her heart stopped. Something battered and worn slumped lifeless to the rocks, but what joined the espiritus in that moment was fierce and vivacious, like the wilds of Nigeria where it had been Born.
I considered posting the whole piece, but it is very graphically violent and posting it so publically was against my better judgement. So, this occurs after Sreya has awoken post-skinning on the verge of death. It's still pretty disturbing so if things of this sort do not appeal to you, please reconsider reading. Most of the terminology also probably makes no sense without the background of the rest of the novel. And oh - the full texted started with "Sreya Bahari was not dying... yet." if you are pondering the wording of the last few sentences.
Ok, side notes are over. I'd say enjoy but that's hardly the right word.
___Sreya didn't recall any sensation of opening her eyes, but she found herself staring out at rocks spattered in dried blood through vision narrowed to tunnels by hypoxia nonetheless. The early morning sun filtered down brighter than it ought to on the territory, and it took a moment for her to realize that this was due to an absence of shade; the trees had been burned to blackened spires pointing like accusatory skeletal fingers at the heavens: why us!? There was a haze in the air, a few smoldering embers on the fringes of the rendezvous still leaking feeble clouds of dark smoke - this she heard and smelled more than saw, unable to turn her head to observe the carnage. Perhaps in this aspect, shock was mercy, for the sights all around would have been enough to crush the very soul of a matriarch.
___Her body felt cold and numb, and even to her own senses her heartbeat was weak and erratic, breaths too shallow and gurgling; Sreya mused that, were she brought to Wild Woods, she would be very much concerned about the survival of herself. The flies were aware of it; as the day warmed with the rising sun, they started to gather in swarming hordes, hovering over her body hesitantly as if wondering if they could land without risk. I heard a fly buzz... and she may have laughed ironically had she the strength for it. Any delirious humor was promptly erased as she watched one circle lower, so close to her eye that she could keenly see its iridescent sides shining blue and green in the sunlight. It moved to land, and she reflexively blinked - or should have, but nothing happened. Its feet touched the surface of her eye, tongue probing, antennae twitching. Regurgitated saliva pooled against her cornea, her eye watered with discomfort, but no lid fell in protection. Only then did she remember the sensation of the flint's blade sliding beneath her skin...
___Oh god. Oh GOD! Her frightened eyes rolled artificially wide from the absence of surrounding skin as the fly alighted. They fell over a forearm stripped nearly to muscle, smooth handiwork, the kind you saw of professional furriers. At her naked elbow, bands of striated bright white clung over corded red - was it the ulnar collateral ligament? The realization was so horrific that it stunned her; she did not cry out in pain, didn't tremble or struggle. Who knows if shock would have allowed it, anyways. Instead she floated in precious numbness, immersed in the surreal feeling of her fleshless body slowly dying.
___How many minutes, hours, eternities passed? There was a sudden disturbance in the clan's espiritus that roused her from the nebulous gray of semi-consciousness. The many new energies, filled with fresh confusion, pain, fury,and sorrow, stirred abruptly, filling the air with an uncomfortable sensation akin to invisible hands charged with electricity groping frantically at one's body - like ghosts seeking a host. This milling, tumultuous presence crescendoed as the sound of footsteps became audible on the charred soil. The bloodied, battered holes in her snout where there once had been nostrils sucked in shallow breaths, attempting to smell whomever was approaching. Therian - she could detect wolf, and terror anew sharpened her senses, for this was now a scent she associated with the most profound of traumas in her life. Her muscles trembled, energy fought to rally, but she could not flee, could not fight.
___The increasing cadence of Sreya's frightened heart beats only spirited her more quickly towards death. One lung was collapsed and the other fast approaching the same fate as blood pooled in the recumbent chest cavity. The rising pulse demanded more oxygen, oxygen the body could not provide, and rushed blood to the giant singular wound that her body had become. She could barely register her surroundings as a shadow fell over her, but she growled low in her throat, ready to use the last tattered remnants of her strength to fight back if need be. The muscles of her mouth attempted to pull themselves into a defiant snarl as the werewolf crouched at her side, hands poised over her body to inflict more harm.
___The werewolf... he smelled of hyena, as well. The espiritus calmed in his presence, humming curiously, milling and coiling between them as though confused in their loyalties. He extended one trembling hand, a human hand with elegant dark-skinned fingers, and brushed a tiny scrap of black fur left behind on the back of her hand. Immediate electricity - her senses were flooded with the smell of damp moss, rotting deciduous leaves, the crisp chill of mountain air. This melted to something sweltering and foreign, a feline musk, and now the familiar wan of sun-dried savanna grasses and dung from large herbivores. That was signature to only one therian that she knew; Trent had come to the clan's territory, after all.
___Someone was shouting, a wild, frantic flurry of words, profanity and sobs intermingled. It sounded distant, like someone screaming from the bowels of a cave. Energy heated the air until it felt as though the forest were aflame once more. Her breaths were growing more difficult, her pulse more sluggish. With the narrow field of her vision fading by the moment, she couldn't make sense of what was going on. Sensation was all but gone, but she thought she felt firm hands upon her raw cheeks. Intense dark eyes glossed over with tears and raw with agony slowly dissolved from her sight, and like a spectral whisper despite it being shouted in her face, she heard the words "I love you." She wished she could respond, tried to force the words.
___And then - Sreya Bahari was dying. Her other lung caved. No smell. No sight. No sound. Her pulse stuttered. Her heart stopped. Something battered and worn slumped lifeless to the rocks, but what joined the espiritus in that moment was fierce and vivacious, like the wilds of Nigeria where it had been Born.
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