It was the coldest,

most golden day.

Frozen hell fire

burning swaying

trees.

My heart turning,

aging,

knowing,

changing,

floating in a glass bowl,

naked,

exposed to the elements.

It was a beautiful day. 

The sun ignited

the leaves

and scattered

the way it would

through glass block.

My dad was ashes,

cold,

heavier than I expected,

in a plastic box

inside of a bag.

My cheeks fiery

in frozen wind,

burnt by autumnal pyres

with the gall

to invade me raw,

scattered,

leaf-like.

Leaving bright specks

across my vision.

Fall came late

and left me brittle,

ready to be a mote

in wind.

Pining for empty,

grey-brown-bended

branches

to break up

blank.

At dusk,

the roads were empty,

leaf strewn,

deaf to

the messy misfires

of my neurons.

I was ugly,

shredded with saws.

My father had his

leg cut off

and couldn't recover.

We are just

meat to be chopped

on the butcher's block,

eventually consumed.

I have learned forgiveness.

At the end, it was me

who had the butcher's knife,

the power to sever,

to coat my apron

in blood,

but I am dressed in white

and I am clean.

I am become death destroyer of words; in this is not the tale of a mad man nor a brilliant one, but of a soul, the dreariest of lost souls. A story just as false as is its truths. Open your eyes and see. Follow me through these sentences as I rake and rue the world to pieces one line at a time. Come with me... Curiosity echoes in my wake and I invite all and awe to hear the universes growing pains... I am the cosmic eye that laid waste to Adam and Eve. Paradise is what I offer unto thee. In return, a contract only signed by a soul's deepest intent and its betrayal is forever. Walk with me and know all the wines these lands have to offer; all the things boy and girls dream of... I am not an ethereal being: I am MAN, I am WOMAN. I am ignorance and "I am become death destroyer of worlds." For us fools, we are our Deus Ex Machina! We are our own undoing... So, come with me. I am the many and I am the few all that I need is you?

X_________________________

Martin Price is a 26 year old virgin who was an absolute nerd growing up and pretty much the stink of it never left him.  He is 5'10 with broad shoulders and athletic build but he was never into sports.  Dark hair with glasses and a garanimals wardrobe, he had the body for it but the ability, it just wasn't there.

In my story stub in my head, Martin spent almost all of his time as a research analyst since graduating college, but he never was good at getting the girls.  He always loved from afar, but never had the courage to go get them.  This was the biggest disappointment of his father, who never, EVER, lets Martin forget that fact.

Martin's father, Dennis Price, was and still is the ladies man.  He is a high level executive at the marketing firm Martin works at and he is banging every lady he can snare.

UNTIL, Amber Hines comes through the door as a new graphic artist she has black hair, pale skin and she is found attractive by almost every male in the firm.  She is almost as sweet as she is attractive.  Many of the men in the firm fall prey to this combination as she doesn't know how to let guys down.  So she is thought of as a tease or a girl who leads guys on.  She is heard one day by Martin, that her favorite thing to do is to go out clubbing, but not to drink just dance.  

Hearing this Martin is crestfallen as he doesn't know how to dance.  If he is doesn't know how to dance, how is he going to get the girl? So being the research analyst that he is, he musters up the courage to go get lessons.  The rest is blah blah blah blah...but that is what I have for characters not put down on paper yet.  

I've had this story in my head for a while, but never put it down, it is trash...but its my trash...don't no one copy it.

#whycantIwritethis #characters

We once were more

than just once upon a time.

I clung to your subliminal words

desperately with both hands,

remembering black lashed eyes

manipulating me like putty,

as I wandered desolately

in empty stretches of unpaved road,

my heart helpless in your cage,

frantically peering through

your blue tinged soul windows.

The darkness of you grew cold,

while midnight halted at the gate.

I spoke to you with desperate teeth

clinging onto your threads of dust,

prone bodies on moon’s floor.

I paraphrased your face in

heavy anchors of pain, watching

as pathos grew within my heart,

while smoky nights and loneliness

lingered in fabricated promises,

spitting in longing’s face,

kicked cavalierly to the curb,

my twirling globe of love,

hanging on a clothesline of empty.

We have our ups, we have our downs

It gives me something to write about

The best of times, the closest of friends

It's a shame to think someday it all ends

With explosiveness and dissonance

You will leave me standing in bitterness

I know it's true, and so do you

But what are we supposed to do?

Just promise me I'll see you tomorrow

Promise me the sun will rise

Promise me there's an end to sorrow

And I'll begin to see blue skies

We're both depressed, it's such a shame

We'd lean on ourselves with no one to blame

Then we found one another and became best friends

It's inevitable that this will end 

But I'll enjoy you while we still have breath

Though every day it seems we talk of death

As if there was just some way out

It gives us something to ponder about

Will you really kill yourself

And leave me here to fend for myself

Leave me here to fend for myself?

Just promise me I'll see you tomorrow

Promise me the sun will rise

Promise me there's an end to sorrow

And we'll both begin to see blue skies

“Everybody freeze!” The whispered voice was barely audible, but nonetheless intense. “I heard that if you don’t move, they can’t see you!”

The light from the old woman’s candle-lamp shone through the dark, exposing the group of little gnomes. They were huddled together, and trying their best to look like mushrooms. Sadly, their clothing, tools, and especially their beards, didn’t look very mushroom-like.

The giant witch (at least she looked like a witch) proceeded to make her way across the yard toward the frightened and visibly shaken band, and the light danced across their terrified faces. Each footstep sounded like thunder in their small ears, and three of them actually wetted themselves in fear.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” The human’s voice was almost painfully loud.

“Just us mushrooms!” said a shaky voice.

“Yeah,” squeaked another. “Mushrooms, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Nothing to see here but us mushrooms!” The tallest of the gnomes seemed to be building up his courage, or at least he was trying to convince himself he was brave.

“Hmm,” said the old woman. “Looks like maybe mushroom soup for supper then!”

At this, the tiny group completely lost their nerve, and scattered in every direction. The old woman just smiled to herself. At least now she knew what had happened to her tomatoes.

She decided it was time to get a guard dog.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

   I can be obsessive but I’m not one to easily become infatuated. Despite that fact, Adrian Loose’s gorgeous hazels leave a searing impression. It’s been over an hour since the thirty-year-old rocker and I first locked eyes yet there he remains in my mind. Forever embedded as waves of mesmerizing gold, green and auburn paradise. The colors weave through my sparking imagination and send a deep buzz through my whole body. Worst timing ever.

   All I want is a successful show. To make that reality, focus is the only lover I need. Besides, Adrian is dating a diamond studded movie star, lucky her, lucky him.

I turn to check the digital clock on the back wall. Showtime was in less than ten minutes. I breathe in deeply and take a glimpse back at my fellow Victoria Secret angels. Dark waves, blonde curls, high cheekbones, slender bodies, toned muscles, none a day over thirty. Some sway their hips to an imaginary beat, others pop out their legs, toss their manes and snap streams of endless selfies. Plastic. As much as I want to ignore the fact, that’s exactly what we are. A parade of contrived perfection, the earthly definition of an angel, the closest to flawless mankind can attain. Women envy us, men lust after us. Millions look to us as though we are heaven come to earth, yet our stories are not fairy tales. Perching on a flat, cold, hard pedestal can hurt. Yes, we hurt. We sacrifice and pay dearly and yep, we bleed. I know this for a fact. My right toe is gushing as we speak. I bend down to conceal it and stop the bleeding. Monica Snow, fellow angel and drama queen of the century, gasps a lot louder than necessary.

   “Kare, what happened to your toe? Ow!”

   “It’s nothing. I probably just bumped it.”

   “It needs to be wrapped!” I start to protest, it has been a climb to the top and I don’t want to cause trouble. The only piece of advice my mother, an ex-supermodel, gave me was to never leave a producer with a reason to give me the boot. Much to my mother’s chagrin, my actor father was a lot more open about the ins of showbiz. He told me to be kind, sweet, compliant and do what the director of the show wanted. Always. Well, so far so good. But that perfect image was about to be ruined by a bikini clad string bean. Monica waved her bedazzled arm in the air.

   “First aid!”

   “Monica, please. I don’t…”

She ignores me, her eyes wide as she strains to get someone’s attention. “First aid! First aid! Good, oh good! Here comes someone.”

   I plant my hands on my hips and glare. “My God, Monica, I’m fine. Please!”

Her blue eyes turned icy as she backed into a circle of other girls. “Woah, sorry.” I turn away from the eyes watching me and face the stage. I want to apologize. That came out so wrong, no matter how hard I tried to fit the perfect mold, it never worked. Mom was right, I should have stayed out. Even though I finally looked like I belonged, the industry wasn’t made for me.

A woman with a blinking blue headpiece rushes in to inspect my foot. Her name tag reads “Patricia”. A loud, voice hollers from somewhere backstage, “alright ladies, five minutes before show time! This is it! Five minutes!” Patricia’s sharp eyes dart from my foot to my face.

   “What the hell happened?”

   “Not sure.” Yeah, that was a lie. I knew. The super high heels they forced me to wear at the five-hour rehearsal had rubbed my flesh chicken skin raw. When they handed me today’s pair of crème-du-la-torture I didn’t dare protest. I slipped them on and “boom” the scab popped off. The woman’s tinted lips pull back, her eyebrows lift but not too far. Botox. Plastic.

   She pats down her silky pockets. “I’ll try to find a see-through bandage.”

The voice hollers again. “Ladies who need help with wardrobe, just let Patricia know, she’s back!”

   “Dammit Clark.” Patricia shoved a chunk of choppy blond hair behind her ear and took off in a whirlwind of expensive fabric. The smell of exotic flowers and dark notes of vanilla tangle with the scent of hairspray and heated hair. I glanced at the line of Victoria Secret models standing a couple paces behind me.

   Most keep their eyes closed. Their wings flutter as they draw their breaths in slowly, calming themselves. Was it true that the immortal could be nerve-wracked? Did goddesses work hard to earn respect and work to keep it? Apparently. We had sacrificed freedom, bared our bodies, strut for men three times our age and here we all are. Chosen by the prestigious, lauded individuals who deemed us worthy enough to walk the God ordained show of fashion. It was our time to shine, to show the world how beautiful, perfect and valuable we are. To make normal women feel like they don’t measure up like they aren’t worth a man’s attention. Ironically, I feel the furthest thing from an unshakeable goddess.    I despise the person I have become, beautiful on the outside but inwardly so unsatisfied. Apparently, plastic wings can’t hoist me above and away from the hideous imperfection dwelling within. My mouth is dry. My stomach is twisting into thick knots. Nausea sweeps over me in waves. I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this really is. The voice screams again. So shrill.

   “Two minutes!”

Patricia books it towards me, almost knocking over two crew members in the process.          “Take the shoe off!” She hollers from a distance. I hesitate. Rude. She stands in front of me and looks up at me, her face beat red.

   “I’m sorry. But please hurry. Hurry!” I step out of my stringy shoe and wait as she administers the bandage. The lights above us dim slowly. Waves of anticipating screams rise from the audience. Millions would be watching at home, their eyes glued to computer and television screens. Nausea. I can hear my heart in my ears. A loud thumping sound washes over the stadium, all falls silent. I hold my breath. Thump. Thump. Thump.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, Adrian Loose!”

Adrian’s smooth voice trills as it booms through the speakers. “Just shoot for my heart if it feels right… one life baby it’s yours better do it right.” A suited man stands beside me, black earpiece tightly wrapped around the outer lobe. His beefy hands press into the ear piece. My foot aches as Patricia finishes stretching the bandage over the wounded area. The suited man speaks.

   “Karis Burdett, you’re on. In three, two, one.” I launch myself away from Patricia and towards the runway. Nope. My ankle dips to the right. I quickly snap it back. The cameras probably caught that. I beam despite the pain and give the audience one less thing to criticize later. Opening the show was a huge deal that many would kill for. I needed to pull my performance together with the cards I have left.

The main stage tonight far outshines how it had looked at rehearsal. Awash with blue, purple and green, the colors of the sea and decorated with large, glass pillars. Utopian, Atlantis. A place with no wars or fighting, no disease or disputed presidencies. Only the best of the best rule here, the stuff of legend, the immortal. At least that’s what the tabloids, star news, and fashion lines scream. Too bad the average person couldn’t plunge beyond the aquamarine mascaraed and into the ocean filled with plastic, plastic, plastic. This deep-sea world is so different from what I imagined. Yet the ambiance is still just as enthralling as the day I started. So confusing.

   The handsome pop-star stands at the back of the stage, his gaze washes over me as I strut forward. He locks eyes with me again. I can’t help but be taken aback. The heated buzz I felt an hour ago, returns. It amplifies as he walks towards me and reaches for my hand. I take it. The crowd roars. Rumors will be buzzing tomorrow but who cares? This is show business. This is what the media wants. Publicity is how we make the money.

Adrian’s voice dips dangerously low then soars to new heights. “Girl, I found you. Finally, you’re here… shooting to those stars, why don’t we disappear into the night, together.” As we walk together, I notice his hands are warm and soft. Security. Something I hadn’t had since dad left. But Adrian has a girlfriend! How dare I hold his hand! He releases me as I near the end of the runway. I pause at the end, toss my glittery dress, twist my hips right then left, seek approval from the crowd. Am I good enough? Am I good enough? Cameras snap continuously. My eyes wander over the packed seats, gauging expressions. My attention settles on a young girl with a long ponytail. Her eyes wide.

   She reminds me so much of me at that age. Innocent, young, unsuspecting and unaware of the dangers of the stage. I flash a smile in her direction, wave like a queen then strut back down the walk. The crowd erupts with applause. I feel the warmth of million of eyes as they scan me up and down. Adrian winks. I flash a bright grin. The buzzing continues. I disappear behind the curtain, enshrouded by the lie of perfection. If only I could disappear from myself.

There was the purple one

Who bid me be a queen

The one who jest at my expense

But for me he would bleed

The one who gave me heartbreak

And never knew my worth

The one with all the talent

A star thrust down to earth

He who watched me wreck myself

But tried to catch my fall

The mystical dramatic one

Who loved me most of all

None of them could save me

From trashing my own being

I wonder if they knew

How significant their meaning

The one who crawled out of the depths

And barely kept her sanity

Who knew not love from her own blood

Had always had a family.

Wrapping his heart

In a cloak of comfort

The warmth of her love

Burns deep in his soul

Filling his days and nights

Are thoughts of her

Her smile, her scent

Her touch, her love

Brief but blissful

Moments they share

Are but a taste

Of what's to come

For these two hearts

Share desires alike

To love and be loved

By one like their own

Should coming days

And passing nights

Bring comfort and warmth

To these loving souls

Each of them

With cups running over

Will finally have found

A place they'll call home

F. Tipa