May was damned busy. I got virtually no writing done aside from a few tottering steps forward in my actual novel. So to kick of June, here's two short pieces that aren't very well written and reflect how rust I've gotten from months of inactivity.
When Words Like "Socioeconomic Status" Suddenly Mean Something
Staying in this house is unsettling to me. It's not for any of the reasons you'd expect - unfamiliarity, homesickness, loneliness, boredom. Rather, wandering the vast spaces of their opulent home is overwhelming. I spend my time like a savage cast unexpectedly into civilization. Their modern luxuries are alien technology: twin showerheads you can individually engage by turning a knob, a microwave that detects when the popcorn is ready, a clock radio that produces soothing nature sounds and - at five o'clock every morning, regardless of my attempts to disable it - an alarm that starts as slow, hesitant beeping and rises to an urgent, high-pitched wail. Their dogs have nicer beds than many children. Their cupboards are stocked with foods I could only justify affording for special occasions.
They have an alarm system. A code to enter the garage. Floodlights. Deadbolts. Neighboring homes looming close. My house has no security system. The garage door's lock broke years ago. A tiny lightbulb that often burns out casts its glow only as far as my front stoop. Our old locks and windows can be overwhelmed easily with a sufficient ammount of prodding. Tall trees hide us from neighbors that don't even smile in acknowledgement when we briefly meet at the edge of the road, fetching bills and court dates from our mailboxes.
Yet every night, I sit huddled on the couch between two dogs, mace within arm's reach, jumping at every tiny noise and fleeting shadow. The TV's indifferent glow somehow offers reassurance as if darkness and silence were prerequisites of violence, as if home invasions couldn't happen with a studio audience laugh track filling the room.
I'm frightened because these people aren't like me. They have things worth stealing.
The Reality Check
Our clothes were so drenched that my seats had the perfect imprints of human bodies damply etched into upholstery, and the entire car reeked like wet hair. I felt a certain glimmer of hope, a skipping rythm in my chest, when you suggested with a grin that we take them off. How many stupid girls had fallen for that dazzling smile, thinking that an eccentric intellectual would somehow be the moral superior of a man who pants down the front of your shirt with alcohol on his breath at the club? A college career doesn't neuter a man.
Afterwards, when you'd promptly found an excuse to leave, I foolishly laid in that tangle of sheets still stinking of sex and smiled. I'd fallen prey to the same idiotic mentality of every woman shafted (literally) before me; I'd allowed myself to get excited by the notion that we were now lovers. Yet as the sheets cooled in the absence of your body, I came to realize the reality of the situation. I was a lover. You were just a fucker.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
And that's how Clarence became a terrorist (Part 1)
Clarence Bryd, werewolf, is a character I will eventually write about if I ever finish my first two novel ideas and get to a third. Without revealing too much, he eventually becomes part of a terrorist organization. It all started with a visit to one of his buddies from Vietnam. I began to write out this scenario for a post at the RPG "Tower," but obviously it being Tower, it deviated from the actual outcome. So here is Part 1 of 2 - Clarence arriving at his buddy's apartment. Part 2 is fourthcoming as soon as I have a moment to write.
Clarence turned the wipers off and killed the ignition. The raindrops slapped gently against the windshield, congealing, distorting the world outside until the sparse trees, the ramshackle apartments, the cracked concrete looked as though they were fashioned of melting wax. A stray cat, rail-thin, despairing, and ragged like the people here lapped water from a puddle, its surface iridescent with motor oil. A woman who was just a child herself pushed a weathered baby carriage, wheels spattered the mud and grime, over sidewalks addled with deep fissures. Her eyes were hard, joyless.
Clarence turned the wipers off and killed the ignition. The raindrops slapped gently against the windshield, congealing, distorting the world outside until the sparse trees, the ramshackle apartments, the cracked concrete looked as though they were fashioned of melting wax. A stray cat, rail-thin, despairing, and ragged like the people here lapped water from a puddle, its surface iridescent with motor oil. A woman who was just a child herself pushed a weathered baby carriage, wheels spattered the mud and grime, over sidewalks addled with deep fissures. Her eyes were hard, joyless.
It caused Clarence a strange discomfort in the pit of his stomach, thinking of Robert living in a place like this. He remembered his smiling, clean-shaved face, eyes transfixed on the shimmering Pacific ocean far below their plane. Over the roar of the engine and snoring of their fellow marines, the other man had told him that his service would give him the money he needed to study biology in Europe, where therians were treated like humans. He wanted to travel the world filming endangered species, or something like that.
Decency was an endangered species in this town. He could smell through the car’s vent the scents of humanity’s decay: the vinegar reek of old heroin syringes; the alcohol stink of discarded whiskey bottles in paper bags; the musk of used condoms from cheap alleyway dalliances; the stinging wan of gunpowder and with it, old blood. He sighed, his hand resting on the door’s handle, not sure he really wanted to venture up the rusted fire escape, a five story ascent, to visit some ghost that barely resembled the man he’d known in Vietnam.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Young Sreya
I never write from Sreya's perspective. This bugs me. She is the female protag of my novel, and she doesn't get nearly enough attention even there. So, I decided to think back to what Sreya's still-human days as a college intern at an emergency veterinary office might be like. And I wound up with this; I think it suits her very well and suggests that there was very much a hint of "matriarch" there even before the "hyena" bit.
Six in the morning. Anywhere else it would be silent, still. In the city, I could already hear the hustle and bustle of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the soft trilling calls of pigeons. This street was comparatively quiet; it was the sort with boarded up windows and broken dreams. No one here had a reason to be up this early; many of them had just filtered home from their night-time escapes from reality. Conversely, I’d been on night duty at the animal ER, a full-immersion shock therapy treatment in reality. The dog I was walking needed a fecal sample; I’d already collected it, and now it was just the quiet clatter of his claws on the pavement until we returned.
The pitbull mix at the end of the leash tensed suddenly, his ears snapping forward and legs stiffening. I looked up the corridor of concrete. Beside a crumbling brick building with a sagging, lopsided stoop, a young man - perhaps in his early twenties - leaned against the wall. His eyes were maliciously mischievous, sexual as he shamelessly gave me a long look up and down. This reaction was sadly somewhat typical when I dared to venture out in public donning my lab coat and scrubs. Something about a woman in professional garb seems to make men feel even more determined to reduce her to mere meat. Threatened, perhaps?
My tension was traveling down the leash; I could see the pit’s hackles raising. Not wanting to bear responsibility for another injurious dog bite statistic for the beleaguered breed, I called him in close to a “heel” position and patted his flank reassuringly. I then continued along my path, eyes focused dead ahead, exuding all of the cool confidence I could muster without throwing on a pair of shades and popping my collar.
My efforts to proceed in quiet dignity were for nigh.
“Hey, baby.”
I’ll never understand why men think this line will ever attract a woman; being compared to a helpless, squalling shit factory is hardly what I call a term of endearment. I strode past him without so much as a sideways glance, refusing to acknowledge such a salutation. His lanky frame peeled away from the wall in a creeping fluid motion.
“Oh, don’t be like that girl,” he chided, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting up as he approached. “That’s a nice dog you got.”
“Yup,” I replied succinct and tight-lipped with vast disinterest.
Deterring a horny, overconfident twenty-something, however, is like trying to stop the tide.
“You like animals, baby?” He was nearly jogging beside me as I hastened my pace in an effort to reach the busy main street ahead. He leaned in close with a leering grin, teeth yellowed from the smoke that crept between them as he smiled. “I can be a real animal.” His voice was dripping with sex.
I stopped in my tracks, chin raised defiantly, and gave him the sort of look I normally reserve for the discovery of dog vomit on the clinic floor.
“My job also involves picking up pieces of shit,” I said, raising the full bag clutched in my hand. “Are you going to throw me some cheesy line about how you can be a real piece of shit as well?”
He flushed with anger, pausing flustered as I began walking away before roughly grabbing my arm. The dog let out a low growl, and I muttered a quick reassurance.
“What’s the matter, bitch?” Ah, I’d gone from a baby to a dog. This was an improvement. “You don’t wanna do it doggy style?”
I grinned at him, the sort of big glistening smile that turns into a snarl at the edges, the sort with hollow, dangerous eyes. Confusion flitted across his face. He didn’t even have time to react as I dropped the bag and pulled the knife from my pocket in one seamless motion. The blade thrust upward and stopped with the tip gently grazing the hem at his inner thigh.
“I castrate dogs.”
Six in the morning. Anywhere else it would be silent, still. In the city, I could already hear the hustle and bustle of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the soft trilling calls of pigeons. This street was comparatively quiet; it was the sort with boarded up windows and broken dreams. No one here had a reason to be up this early; many of them had just filtered home from their night-time escapes from reality. Conversely, I’d been on night duty at the animal ER, a full-immersion shock therapy treatment in reality. The dog I was walking needed a fecal sample; I’d already collected it, and now it was just the quiet clatter of his claws on the pavement until we returned.
The pitbull mix at the end of the leash tensed suddenly, his ears snapping forward and legs stiffening. I looked up the corridor of concrete. Beside a crumbling brick building with a sagging, lopsided stoop, a young man - perhaps in his early twenties - leaned against the wall. His eyes were maliciously mischievous, sexual as he shamelessly gave me a long look up and down. This reaction was sadly somewhat typical when I dared to venture out in public donning my lab coat and scrubs. Something about a woman in professional garb seems to make men feel even more determined to reduce her to mere meat. Threatened, perhaps?
My tension was traveling down the leash; I could see the pit’s hackles raising. Not wanting to bear responsibility for another injurious dog bite statistic for the beleaguered breed, I called him in close to a “heel” position and patted his flank reassuringly. I then continued along my path, eyes focused dead ahead, exuding all of the cool confidence I could muster without throwing on a pair of shades and popping my collar.
My efforts to proceed in quiet dignity were for nigh.
“Hey, baby.”
I’ll never understand why men think this line will ever attract a woman; being compared to a helpless, squalling shit factory is hardly what I call a term of endearment. I strode past him without so much as a sideways glance, refusing to acknowledge such a salutation. His lanky frame peeled away from the wall in a creeping fluid motion.
“Oh, don’t be like that girl,” he chided, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting up as he approached. “That’s a nice dog you got.”
“Yup,” I replied succinct and tight-lipped with vast disinterest.
Deterring a horny, overconfident twenty-something, however, is like trying to stop the tide.
“You like animals, baby?” He was nearly jogging beside me as I hastened my pace in an effort to reach the busy main street ahead. He leaned in close with a leering grin, teeth yellowed from the smoke that crept between them as he smiled. “I can be a real animal.” His voice was dripping with sex.
I stopped in my tracks, chin raised defiantly, and gave him the sort of look I normally reserve for the discovery of dog vomit on the clinic floor.
“My job also involves picking up pieces of shit,” I said, raising the full bag clutched in my hand. “Are you going to throw me some cheesy line about how you can be a real piece of shit as well?”
He flushed with anger, pausing flustered as I began walking away before roughly grabbing my arm. The dog let out a low growl, and I muttered a quick reassurance.
“What’s the matter, bitch?” Ah, I’d gone from a baby to a dog. This was an improvement. “You don’t wanna do it doggy style?”
I grinned at him, the sort of big glistening smile that turns into a snarl at the edges, the sort with hollow, dangerous eyes. Confusion flitted across his face. He didn’t even have time to react as I dropped the bag and pulled the knife from my pocket in one seamless motion. The blade thrust upward and stopped with the tip gently grazing the hem at his inner thigh.
“I castrate dogs.”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Romance, Raze-Style
I feel badly about abusing my hypothetical readers with poor quality, emotionally disturbed writing from my teenage years earlier today. So I have a treat for you: pure, unfiltered sap with two of the novel's cutest couples. For those who don't know them: Trent is a hybrid therianthrope, while his girlfriend Sreya is the matriarch of a werehyena clan. And Gabe the werebear has his heart set on the vampiress Evelyn, a former fighting animal he helped rescue from an illegal preternatural pit-fighting operation.
1. Gabriel and Evelyn
Evelyn turned to walk away and Gabe reached out, grasping her wrist gently but firmly. Her skin was clammy against the heat of his palm.
"Don't do this, Evelyn," he pleaded, dark brown eyes scanning her face in hurt confusion. She stared back cooly, the black voids of her large pupils unrevealing.
"We're just kidding ourselves, Gabe. This can't work. I'm not human." She choked out a pained laugh. "I can't even take a walk in the park with you during the day time."
Gabe snorted.
"For the record, I hate the park. Nothing but pigeon shit and and homeless people." he grinned. "Besides, I'm not human either. Or did you forget the whole "turns into a ravening bear on the full moon" part of our relationship?"
"It's not the same thing," she replied with a scowl, jerking her pale, slender wrist free of his grip with ease. "I'll outlive you, probably by a hundred years. You'll grow old and die, and I won't age a day."
"So I've got a few more years of being the lucky dude with the experienced older woman, and when I'm 80 I get to be the dirty old man with the hot young girlfriend?" He wriggled his brow, silver hoops dancing up and down. "Sounds good to me."
"Is everything a goddamn joke to you?" she replied with disgust, aggressively pulling the door open. Gabe countered, slamming his palm against the wood. It closed so forcefully that it shuddered on its hinges. Evelyn turned around with an exhasperated sigh and was surprised to find a great intensity of raw emotion in his young eyes.
"You are not a joke to me." He reached out brushed the pale, cool skin of her cheek with the back of his dark, hairy knuckles. "Evelyn... I want to watch the sun set behind the Bitterroot with you. I want to walk along the creek in the moonlight, see the stars shining in those beautiful black eyes of yours like a reflection of the night sky. I want to hunt with you, hear the rush of your wings above me." He cradled her chin with his other hand. "I don't want a human, or another therian, or anything else. I want you."
He pulled away, straightening out his posture, folding his muscular arms over his chest stubbornly, and gave a sly smile.
"And because you just made me say something that fucking lame, you're stuck with my until I'm a toothless old pervert."
2. Trent and Sreya
Although it was sufficiently warm this late in the summer for my t-shirt to cling to my back with sweat, the breeze coming off of the lake was crisp and cool. It smelled like freshly melted snow, sharp and pure. The mid-day sun sparkled on the water's surface, choppy from the wind. It made reflections of the mountains looming high above distort and ripple, like their vast, craggy peaks were melting away. A few well-worn tree trunks and pitted glacial erratics broke the surface at staggared intervals by a shore of smooth cobbles. I could hear the water softly lapping at the stones.
Sreya had abandoned her backpack, jettisoned her hiking boots, discarded her socks in a crumpled heap by the water's edge. The tan flesh of her smooth, muscular calves prickled into goosebumps as she waded out ankle deep. She grinned over her shoulder, raven-black hair falling over her face strand by strand in the wind.
"It's so cold!" she remarked, sounding pleasantly surprised.
"It's fed by run-off from the glaciers." I pointed to the network of narrow streams and waterfalls cascading down the steep, rocky prominences all around us. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand, face a mask of wonderment as she scrutinized the towering walls of granite and the scruffy little trees clinging desperately to the rock.
"This is fantastic. I can't believe I've lived in Montana this long and never came here!"
She planted her hands on her hips as if readying to scold herself for such a transgression, then looked back to me. Her khaki shorts were smeared with dirt, her dark green shirt damp with sweat where the backpack's straps had crossed her shoulders. Her hair was billowing in a wild, unruly tangle around her face, cheeks still flush from the strenuous climb. ...And damned if she wasn't still positively breathtaking.
"Will you take my photo? I want to remember today," she asked with a beaming smile. I was rummaging through my pack for the camera before she could finish the sentence; I wanted to remember today as well.
1. Gabriel and Evelyn
Evelyn turned to walk away and Gabe reached out, grasping her wrist gently but firmly. Her skin was clammy against the heat of his palm.
"Don't do this, Evelyn," he pleaded, dark brown eyes scanning her face in hurt confusion. She stared back cooly, the black voids of her large pupils unrevealing.
"We're just kidding ourselves, Gabe. This can't work. I'm not human." She choked out a pained laugh. "I can't even take a walk in the park with you during the day time."
Gabe snorted.
"For the record, I hate the park. Nothing but pigeon shit and and homeless people." he grinned. "Besides, I'm not human either. Or did you forget the whole "turns into a ravening bear on the full moon" part of our relationship?"
"It's not the same thing," she replied with a scowl, jerking her pale, slender wrist free of his grip with ease. "I'll outlive you, probably by a hundred years. You'll grow old and die, and I won't age a day."
"So I've got a few more years of being the lucky dude with the experienced older woman, and when I'm 80 I get to be the dirty old man with the hot young girlfriend?" He wriggled his brow, silver hoops dancing up and down. "Sounds good to me."
"Is everything a goddamn joke to you?" she replied with disgust, aggressively pulling the door open. Gabe countered, slamming his palm against the wood. It closed so forcefully that it shuddered on its hinges. Evelyn turned around with an exhasperated sigh and was surprised to find a great intensity of raw emotion in his young eyes.
"You are not a joke to me." He reached out brushed the pale, cool skin of her cheek with the back of his dark, hairy knuckles. "Evelyn... I want to watch the sun set behind the Bitterroot with you. I want to walk along the creek in the moonlight, see the stars shining in those beautiful black eyes of yours like a reflection of the night sky. I want to hunt with you, hear the rush of your wings above me." He cradled her chin with his other hand. "I don't want a human, or another therian, or anything else. I want you."
He pulled away, straightening out his posture, folding his muscular arms over his chest stubbornly, and gave a sly smile.
"And because you just made me say something that fucking lame, you're stuck with my until I'm a toothless old pervert."
2. Trent and Sreya
Although it was sufficiently warm this late in the summer for my t-shirt to cling to my back with sweat, the breeze coming off of the lake was crisp and cool. It smelled like freshly melted snow, sharp and pure. The mid-day sun sparkled on the water's surface, choppy from the wind. It made reflections of the mountains looming high above distort and ripple, like their vast, craggy peaks were melting away. A few well-worn tree trunks and pitted glacial erratics broke the surface at staggared intervals by a shore of smooth cobbles. I could hear the water softly lapping at the stones.
Sreya had abandoned her backpack, jettisoned her hiking boots, discarded her socks in a crumpled heap by the water's edge. The tan flesh of her smooth, muscular calves prickled into goosebumps as she waded out ankle deep. She grinned over her shoulder, raven-black hair falling over her face strand by strand in the wind.
"It's so cold!" she remarked, sounding pleasantly surprised.
"It's fed by run-off from the glaciers." I pointed to the network of narrow streams and waterfalls cascading down the steep, rocky prominences all around us. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand, face a mask of wonderment as she scrutinized the towering walls of granite and the scruffy little trees clinging desperately to the rock.
"This is fantastic. I can't believe I've lived in Montana this long and never came here!"
She planted her hands on her hips as if readying to scold herself for such a transgression, then looked back to me. Her khaki shorts were smeared with dirt, her dark green shirt damp with sweat where the backpack's straps had crossed her shoulders. Her hair was billowing in a wild, unruly tangle around her face, cheeks still flush from the strenuous climb. ...And damned if she wasn't still positively breathtaking.
"Will you take my photo? I want to remember today," she asked with a beaming smile. I was rummaging through my pack for the camera before she could finish the sentence; I wanted to remember today as well.
Drive Safely
More old stuff: the blogger's solution to an utter lack of inspiration.
With all of the lights flashing red and white, it would have been festive. Would have, if it wasn't just the constant flash of alternating tail lights and break lights in the stop-and-go hubbub of the town. The cars were clotting up the roadways like cholesterol in a trouble-bound aorta, every new set of tires hitting the street just a build up to the bursting point.
It was always like this around the holidays; instead of spending time at home with their families, everyone was cursing in bumper to bumper traffic, cutting each other off and running redlights with a predictable regularity that made the offenses boring and run of the mill. It stripped each of these life-threatening acts, these callous moments of disregard, of every bit of shock value until it was just another asshole endangering someone's life. Half of the time the folks running red, children in the back seat, weren't even quick about it, didn't even look sneaky or ashamed. The new unspoken rule wasn't that we'd all abide by the rules of the road, but rather that we'd stop and look both ways before daring to go on green.
I was pressing the tip of a Marlboro to the red-hot coils of my car's cigarette lighter. The tobacco ignited in a flash of brilliant orange, curled black paper dissolving away like the tender alveoli of my lungs. I brought the thin white stick to my lips, using the other hand to press the horn at an SUV who was sticking half of the way out into my lane, insistent on edging his way into the tie-up so he could wait somewhere else. As I inhaled, I could feel the hot smoke curl down my trachea and blossom in my lungs, more satisfying than air and yet somehow less substantial as well. As twin plumes of pale grey curled from my nostrils, I fancied that I had become the traffic dragon, some surly beast laying in wait until one more idiot incurred my fiery wrath.
When the light turned green, I inched up to the bumper ahead of me, eager to get through this time around. I was midway through the intersection when my peripheral vision caught a flash of motion to the left. It was the only warning I received before the Chevy collided with the driver's side door. I remember thinking how funny it was; something that crumbled like a ball of tinfoil on impact made so much noise! Steel shouldn't collapse like that, so it must have been something else - paper, aluminum - than hit my side so hard that I found myself in the passenger side a moment later, head pressed against the window and elbow jammed between the seat and the frame.
I don't know if I blacked out or what, but in what only seemed like seconds later, there were sirens in the distance. My side felt strange, too many angles and fluidity all at once, like I was a leaky plastic garbage bag filled with broken bottles and their former contents. I could feel the cigarette, still pressed snugly between my index and middle finger, littering ash all over my skin as my shaking hand attempted to lift it once more to my lips. Something was wrong though; my elbow was stuck, my wrist felt strangely limp.
So I lowered my head, feeling for the first time the gritty sensation of the safety glass pressed into my cheek and scalp, glued in tight by coagulated blood. When I finally was able to clumsily close my lips over the Marlboro, I couldn't get the suction I wanted, the smoke just leaking in - unsatisfactory. And when I tried to exhale, I was no longer the traffic dragon, but something different - an incense burner, with little tendrils of smoke rising from the dark red patches on my broken-bottle side. When the lights started flashing in the distance, reflecting off of the dark blood pooling in the side-door ashtray that I'd dropped my cigarette into, I again found myself thinking, how festive.
With all of the lights flashing red and white, it would have been festive. Would have, if it wasn't just the constant flash of alternating tail lights and break lights in the stop-and-go hubbub of the town. The cars were clotting up the roadways like cholesterol in a trouble-bound aorta, every new set of tires hitting the street just a build up to the bursting point.
It was always like this around the holidays; instead of spending time at home with their families, everyone was cursing in bumper to bumper traffic, cutting each other off and running redlights with a predictable regularity that made the offenses boring and run of the mill. It stripped each of these life-threatening acts, these callous moments of disregard, of every bit of shock value until it was just another asshole endangering someone's life. Half of the time the folks running red, children in the back seat, weren't even quick about it, didn't even look sneaky or ashamed. The new unspoken rule wasn't that we'd all abide by the rules of the road, but rather that we'd stop and look both ways before daring to go on green.
I was pressing the tip of a Marlboro to the red-hot coils of my car's cigarette lighter. The tobacco ignited in a flash of brilliant orange, curled black paper dissolving away like the tender alveoli of my lungs. I brought the thin white stick to my lips, using the other hand to press the horn at an SUV who was sticking half of the way out into my lane, insistent on edging his way into the tie-up so he could wait somewhere else. As I inhaled, I could feel the hot smoke curl down my trachea and blossom in my lungs, more satisfying than air and yet somehow less substantial as well. As twin plumes of pale grey curled from my nostrils, I fancied that I had become the traffic dragon, some surly beast laying in wait until one more idiot incurred my fiery wrath.
When the light turned green, I inched up to the bumper ahead of me, eager to get through this time around. I was midway through the intersection when my peripheral vision caught a flash of motion to the left. It was the only warning I received before the Chevy collided with the driver's side door. I remember thinking how funny it was; something that crumbled like a ball of tinfoil on impact made so much noise! Steel shouldn't collapse like that, so it must have been something else - paper, aluminum - than hit my side so hard that I found myself in the passenger side a moment later, head pressed against the window and elbow jammed between the seat and the frame.
I don't know if I blacked out or what, but in what only seemed like seconds later, there were sirens in the distance. My side felt strange, too many angles and fluidity all at once, like I was a leaky plastic garbage bag filled with broken bottles and their former contents. I could feel the cigarette, still pressed snugly between my index and middle finger, littering ash all over my skin as my shaking hand attempted to lift it once more to my lips. Something was wrong though; my elbow was stuck, my wrist felt strangely limp.
So I lowered my head, feeling for the first time the gritty sensation of the safety glass pressed into my cheek and scalp, glued in tight by coagulated blood. When I finally was able to clumsily close my lips over the Marlboro, I couldn't get the suction I wanted, the smoke just leaking in - unsatisfactory. And when I tried to exhale, I was no longer the traffic dragon, but something different - an incense burner, with little tendrils of smoke rising from the dark red patches on my broken-bottle side. When the lights started flashing in the distance, reflecting off of the dark blood pooling in the side-door ashtray that I'd dropped my cigarette into, I again found myself thinking, how festive.
Scene from a Nightmare
This is actually old writing, but I figured I'd cross-post it here because a. I haven't put out anything new and b. it's reasonably well written, if not a bit disturbing. It is very literally a scene from one of my nightmares; I had some really twisted dreams after my best friend was raped (by a friend of mine, no less), and this was one of them.
"This would be a lot easier," I say, "if you would just stop screaming."
Not really, not physically at least, but my ears wouldn't be ringing, and I'd be able to focus better. I mean, it's bad enough that his head is almost completely shaved, just this nasty coarse stubble that gets slick and impossible to grasp with all the blood, even with my hand spread wide and my fingers digging in. There's nothing to grab on to, no fistful of hair to twist into a handle. I have to use this belt instead, crammed into his mouth and fastened until his doughy creeks droop over the leather and the veins in his temples throb like an orgasm. With one hand controlling his head like he's some unruly stallion on the end of my reigns, I'd really only have one hand to work with if I wanted to keep slamming his face into the curb, and at my weight, one hand doesn't really cut it, especially with his slippery, grainy scalp.
But really, I didn't wear the right footwear for stomping, so the whole thing is taking much longer than it should.
I have these stupid, smooth-bottomed Walmart shoes that are coming apart at all of the seams and have faded into a grungy beige over time. The soles are a death trap in the rain or mud, so if I'm not careful, I'll be the one coughing up teeth on the curb by the time I finish. The balancing act is bad enough; one arm pulling up on the belt to keep it nice and tight and controlled, one foot forcing down hard on the back of this squirming, screeching head. I think the poise demanded of sociopaths is severely trivialized. Balancing all of my weight on this one grounded leg, and wagging my grimey rubicund free arm around like some really twisted tightrope walker, is all I can do to keep from falling flat on my ass.
The curb is starting to look like one of those precautionary snuff films they show you during defensive driving courses. Three hours of staring at big crimson stains and little wet erubescent chunks, wondering if you're the only one getting off. This guy, his face is starting to look like there's more of it on the curb than on the bone. The concrete is a thick, slick mess of blood and snot and tissue, a rainbow of just reds ranging in color from "clot" to "connective tissue."
The little bits of broken teeth are making horrible grinding noises every time another forceful kick drives them against the hard, uneven conglomorate. There's that walking-through-mud squelching of his raw face against the pulp of everything that made it raw spread out all over the sidewalk. Sometimes, there's a wet snap or pop when the cartilage in his broken, mashed up nose shifts or breaks.
I'm sure he thinks the pain is the worst part, but really, it's the sound.
"This would be a lot easier," I say, "if you would just stop screaming."
Not really, not physically at least, but my ears wouldn't be ringing, and I'd be able to focus better. I mean, it's bad enough that his head is almost completely shaved, just this nasty coarse stubble that gets slick and impossible to grasp with all the blood, even with my hand spread wide and my fingers digging in. There's nothing to grab on to, no fistful of hair to twist into a handle. I have to use this belt instead, crammed into his mouth and fastened until his doughy creeks droop over the leather and the veins in his temples throb like an orgasm. With one hand controlling his head like he's some unruly stallion on the end of my reigns, I'd really only have one hand to work with if I wanted to keep slamming his face into the curb, and at my weight, one hand doesn't really cut it, especially with his slippery, grainy scalp.
But really, I didn't wear the right footwear for stomping, so the whole thing is taking much longer than it should.
I have these stupid, smooth-bottomed Walmart shoes that are coming apart at all of the seams and have faded into a grungy beige over time. The soles are a death trap in the rain or mud, so if I'm not careful, I'll be the one coughing up teeth on the curb by the time I finish. The balancing act is bad enough; one arm pulling up on the belt to keep it nice and tight and controlled, one foot forcing down hard on the back of this squirming, screeching head. I think the poise demanded of sociopaths is severely trivialized. Balancing all of my weight on this one grounded leg, and wagging my grimey rubicund free arm around like some really twisted tightrope walker, is all I can do to keep from falling flat on my ass.
The curb is starting to look like one of those precautionary snuff films they show you during defensive driving courses. Three hours of staring at big crimson stains and little wet erubescent chunks, wondering if you're the only one getting off. This guy, his face is starting to look like there's more of it on the curb than on the bone. The concrete is a thick, slick mess of blood and snot and tissue, a rainbow of just reds ranging in color from "clot" to "connective tissue."
The little bits of broken teeth are making horrible grinding noises every time another forceful kick drives them against the hard, uneven conglomorate. There's that walking-through-mud squelching of his raw face against the pulp of everything that made it raw spread out all over the sidewalk. Sometimes, there's a wet snap or pop when the cartilage in his broken, mashed up nose shifts or breaks.
I'm sure he thinks the pain is the worst part, but really, it's the sound.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Finding Humanity
His flat, round, unblinking eye is staring out from the bowl. It darts to and fro like a fish does, like he used to. His only other movement is the tremor of his body, his gills flapping laboredly. His mouth opens and closes in great, gasping gulps like he is out of the water. His bright gold scales are a sparkling wave of iridescence with every twitch of his dying body; they seem too cheerful, inapropos, for his dire state. Little red streaks from sepsis travel through his fins like road map to suffering.
A little girl in the class asks the other youth minister why God allows people to suffer. She is probably only six or seven years old, but she already recognizes the incongruity. He smiles her words away and offers the same tired platitude: God has a plan for us all. I remember a time when I could say those words with conviction.
My attention drifts back to the fish and his silent plea for mercy. I fancy that man must be the God of beasts, for like Him, we ignore their suffering. I let out a strangled bark of laughter that garners a frown from my comrade; I don't care. I pick up the bowl, the cool orb heavy in my hands, and I dash from the room. I run past the Christian nursery school, children seated semi-circle in rapt attention, their bright eyes focused on picture-book depictions of Jesus. The preist's sermon echoes incoherently down the hallway.
I am not certain of what I will do with this goldfish, but I am certain of one thing: I am tired of being a God. Today, I have found Humanity.
A little girl in the class asks the other youth minister why God allows people to suffer. She is probably only six or seven years old, but she already recognizes the incongruity. He smiles her words away and offers the same tired platitude: God has a plan for us all. I remember a time when I could say those words with conviction.
My attention drifts back to the fish and his silent plea for mercy. I fancy that man must be the God of beasts, for like Him, we ignore their suffering. I let out a strangled bark of laughter that garners a frown from my comrade; I don't care. I pick up the bowl, the cool orb heavy in my hands, and I dash from the room. I run past the Christian nursery school, children seated semi-circle in rapt attention, their bright eyes focused on picture-book depictions of Jesus. The preist's sermon echoes incoherently down the hallway.
I am not certain of what I will do with this goldfish, but I am certain of one thing: I am tired of being a God. Today, I have found Humanity.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Three Shorts
1. Soldier
My hands are too clumsy weak, too slippery with blood to really grasp anything properly... but I want to hold it anyways. I fumble against my coat pocket; I've had this coat for years, but suddenly this old friend is a new enemy as the fabric sticks to my fingers, folds under my grasp, refuses to yield. It takes most of the energy I have left to finally clench it weakly between a trembling thumb and pointer, and the rest to withdraw it, hold it in the fading field of my vision. Things are getting dim, but her smile on that faded, wrinkled film is brighter than the sun creeping over the horizon to my back.
"All for you, babe," I mutter to a memory. "It was always all for you."
2. Cattle
It did not take long to find the herd; they bellowed and belched and reeked blatantly, the quiet, cautious decency of a prey animal long forgotten. Hunkered in fat, dull masses like their human masters, the cattle wrapped their strong tongues around the grass, dragging it up by its roots and chewing idly. Their hooves cut into the frozen soil as they slowly paced to and fro to strip more plant life from the earth. All around, the prairie was marred by their gluttonous destruction.
3. Nevermind
I still remember how you invited me back to your house, paused, and then said "Nevermind." I thought little of it at the time; you were busy with academia as always. Now I think perhaps you knew that it was going to be the last time you ever saw me, and wanted to keep it as simple and perfect as the day had been. But part of me still wishes I’d known, too.
My hands are too clumsy weak, too slippery with blood to really grasp anything properly... but I want to hold it anyways. I fumble against my coat pocket; I've had this coat for years, but suddenly this old friend is a new enemy as the fabric sticks to my fingers, folds under my grasp, refuses to yield. It takes most of the energy I have left to finally clench it weakly between a trembling thumb and pointer, and the rest to withdraw it, hold it in the fading field of my vision. Things are getting dim, but her smile on that faded, wrinkled film is brighter than the sun creeping over the horizon to my back.
"All for you, babe," I mutter to a memory. "It was always all for you."
2. Cattle
It did not take long to find the herd; they bellowed and belched and reeked blatantly, the quiet, cautious decency of a prey animal long forgotten. Hunkered in fat, dull masses like their human masters, the cattle wrapped their strong tongues around the grass, dragging it up by its roots and chewing idly. Their hooves cut into the frozen soil as they slowly paced to and fro to strip more plant life from the earth. All around, the prairie was marred by their gluttonous destruction.
3. Nevermind
I still remember how you invited me back to your house, paused, and then said "Nevermind." I thought little of it at the time; you were busy with academia as always. Now I think perhaps you knew that it was going to be the last time you ever saw me, and wanted to keep it as simple and perfect as the day had been. But part of me still wishes I’d known, too.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Linespiration, Raze Style.
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.”
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.”
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.
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