You’ve never liked the rain. It reminds you of all those loud, stormy nights. The one time you ever caught your sister crying. The night you slept in that horror show of a basement. The first time your heart was broken. The night your parents all but disowned you. The day your cousin died. The rain is just full of bad memories for you.

But not for her.

She loves the rain. She told you as much, right off the bat. It was raining, the night you met. You’re pretty sure you didn’t notice, you were so caught up in everything she is, was, and ever will be.

And here you are, caught in the rain like in one of those cheesy rom-coms she insists you should actually bother to watch. But it's much more entertaining watching her scoff at your offer of a jacket. To watch her skip out from under the canopy you had attempted to hide away under.

She let you watch her do a twirl or two until she got bored of that, and came back. She held out her hand to you in offer.

“Dance with me,” she says. It wasn’t a question, and you know what your answer would be if it was, what with that damned smile of hers. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“In the cold, wet rain? With no music? When we have to be at your father’s fancy dinner party in 10 minutes?”

She didn’t even hesitate with her response. “Yes.”

And that's all it took.

That's all it took for her to let you lead in some kind of makeshift waltz, around the park that you swore that you would never return to once upon a time.

You’re half an hour late to her father's house. Both your dresses are dripping wet all night, and you’re pretty sure you look like a drowned rat.

She looks beautiful, of course. She always looks beautiful.

Alone

Under a grinning

moon and clouded pillow

case night in the dead

of winter

You are the only companion.

A dead plant,

Ash covered beneath

Dead Christmas lights, you

Can't even tell if you are

Crying tears of pain or

Cold air is ripping fluids

From your blood

Shot eyes, yawning

Defeat off shivering

Half finger tips, the voices

In the park only serve

To gauge just how far away faces

Are, and familiarity...

And even the dogs

Won't come out to taunt you

On this night of terrible

Silence

For fear of giving you

A false sense

Of company

He’s 83 years, my dad.

He’s sometimes good and sometimes bad.

But, really he’s the only dad I’ve had.

He hides things now. For a living. Almost.

His keys. His wallet. His television remote controls.

“So’s nobody can pinch them,” he says.

“Y’know. When they sneak in during the night.”

They work on a nearby construction sight. The invisible five, unknown to the police.

He’s beaten men in the past.

But somehow that beat wasn’t meant to last.

He sits on his teeth, sometimes.

I think he’s trying to keep them warm.

And once they were in his bed.

Top and bottom set.

But they weren’t his, he said.

I worry he’ll bite himself on the bum, eventually.

The woman died one night… gave the paramedics a fright.

Sirens and blue lights everywhere.

Only… there was no one there.

Nothing’s ever there.

Or ever pinched.

Not even the lifeless body of the unknown woman.

She’s known to the police, because he tells them about her whenever he calls them.

It’s all false.

The teeth.

The alarms.

The works.

So that proves it’s true.

Like Donald Trump. My dad keeps smiling.

Wherever his teeth are, they smile!

Cry weep my sweet willow, you and I share a commonality of pain.

  You bloom simple buds at the start of spring but find no motivation to keep them alive.  Sweet blooms that only I must understand because I watch them die and know for an instant you were happy ;for an instant you found life something sweet something lovely to taste, and the pink flowers showed how you had a vigor for life even if it only lasted the moments you saw life as sweet to survive. Maybe for a moment you fell in love and felt that you were loved and hence you knew you must survive but those moments did not last long.  Did your love cut you off? did he fade away? Did he promise to return and never come back? for as days pass along your blossoms die they fade into the floral dust.  Their ashes spread along the ground and you feel as a reminder why you never raise your arms to the sky why your never grateful to be alive why your never eager to wake tommorow why your always hoping that today will be your last day. Sad whimpering willow tree raise your arms and whimper before your days are too short. why is it that the sad live on? is it that they are too afraid to die an yet life seems pointless.? The blue sky suffocated you the clouds smother you and sweet brokenhearted willow tree how is it that next spring, you will have found love again and on time again  you will die hopeless.  Why is it that you willow tree have always a few moments of bliss to push you to live a little longer while we struggle day in and day out year on and year out life is monotonous we can never find happiness. take pity on the whimpering willow  tree for she recalls the days when she was happy and loved and that reminds her everyday why life is painful. Take pity on  my sweet whimpering willow who knew what it was to love.  hug my willow for tomorrow she will have received her wish she will never blossom again all that will be left behind are her floral ashes and broken waving branches tomorrow. when she fades out of life she will wish she would have rejoiced in life she will wish and hope for one last spring.  One last feeling of love but she will not receive it she will be a reminder for us to love no matter how we wish otherwise.  She will remind us life is sweet and not to waste it wishing you were otherwise. so take pity on my sweet whimpering willow, learn from her pink ashes and love in her moments of dejection

You walked into the room unnoticed

Or so you thought, maybe to most

I don't know what drew my glance

There was something there undefinable

Did you see me notice?

Was I turning red?

From across that room,

Could you hear my heart race?

I pretend to read my book

Take notes, but it's all pretense

Every moment torture

Thoughts of what could be

Then I let you leave, coward I

Told myself I could live without you

I must not tell lies

Especially to my heart

I push aside the glass and step into the mist. I walk along a quiet path, thinking of what I have never always forever endlessly missed. It's a strange memory, this place. I tend to not like worlds made of grey. It this place, the sun does not shine. It is too bright, too happy. The only other color here is you. Or maybe, blue. Same difference. The droplets begin to fall above, a gentle melody of our past love. In your arms, holding me close, dancing through the night, love drug overdose. The rain would fall, I couldn't see, smiling blindly, lost in a sea of eternal clouds. Smiling, sightless. Happy, for sure... for sure?

You last led me here to dance, a midnight getaway.

Yet you only told me you were going far away.

Now the crystal tears that fall from the sky

are the tears you left on my face

I asked you nicely to return

but you were already gone

Now a storm is swirling in the sky

And the tears I cry have begun to burn.

[Old version] [Droplets of Love]

I could walk through the rain for hours. It reminds me of you. The sun is too bright, too energetic. Rain, like you, is calm and quiet, gentle and serene. We would dance together, not caring if we were soaked. We would laugh. We would smile. We were happy.

We never got our last dance.

Now the rain is lonely.

I miss you.

From two years ago...

“1,2,3,4...I am knocking on your door. 5,6,7,8...Why do you keep me out so late? 9, 10...Should I ask again?” A voice asks, leaving even the wind breathless.

“What do you want!” A young voice shouts, it’s voice squeaky and high-pitched, clearly belonging to a child frozen in terror.

”I just want to play.” The voice whines, now sounding like a young girl’s.

”No! GO AWAY!” The boy yells, before a series of clicks can be heard. The door was now locked.

”1,2,3,4...Is that your answer, are you sure? 5,6,7,8...You had your chance, it’s now too late. 9, 10...Here I go again”

With little effort, the door unlocks and flings wide-open. At it’s entrance is a boy with dirty blonde hair. He is cowering as the wind whips his hair and the darkness chills his bones. He glances up as the figure crosses the threshold. “Please, I didn’t do it. I really didn’t.”

The figure gazes at the boy with both pity and disgust before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. The boy cries in terror, his parents in the living room oblivious to the scene. “You are guilty, no matter what you say.”

”No! PLEASE, NO!” The boy begins to scream, but as soon as his mouth opens, the figure shoves her hand down his throat and with her nails, digs out the boy’s Hyoid bone. Causing the child’s throat to collapse and rendering him speechless. With the newly attained bone, she pulls her hand back out and drops his body to the ground.

”1,2,3,4...When I knock, answer the door. 5,6,7,8...Never, ever keep me out late. 9, 10...Shall I repeat again?”

The boy, now clutching his throat shakes his head from side-to-side. With a last look at the boy, the figure leaves. Closing the door behind her as the moon shone in the night, she moved onto the next house. Wondering if they kept their promise...

#thebonewitch #bone #witch #girl #boy #story #short #dark #voice #xjenvanx #hyoid

“Hey, pretty lady, what’s your number?”

More than anything, I hate that line. Today, especially. Once upon a time, a millennium ago, it used to be the way the males of the species requested a way of reaching the females when they were no longer in each other’s presence. They used some contraptions called a telephone, then a cell phone, then I don’t know what that required a given number that allowed the speaker to reach the desired within seconds. More or less. They also used a rather antiquated form of the computer that allowed them to write and receive letters almost instantaneously. Rather interesting, actually. They spent hours in virtual rooms called chat rooms speaking with unknown beings about shared interests although quite astoundingly uninteresting if you read the transcripts.

Anyway, of course, that is not the number today’s young men seek. Most people don’t even know what a telephone is. Chip implants have made hide-and-seek virtually impossible – ha that’s funny, virtually impossible – and telephones unnecessary. So, what is the number you may ask, my fellow beings of past or future, wherever this cyber note to history may land? Why, my expiration date, of course. What, say you, dumbfounded, incredulous? Expiration date? Aren’t they for perishable goods like milk (past) and chemical compounds used to cure illness and disease (past). Now that I think about it, you readers in my future will understand if life is similar to today: Only people have expiration dates at this point in time. Perhaps that will change one day.

How does it happen? A well-established couple decides to visit the National Department of Births and Population Control. They request the opportunity to raise a child. The Department of Vital Investigation (DVI) interrogates them and any other relatives they may have and then they do a 300 year background search. Any undesirables? Forget it! Most importantly, is this a couple deserving of bringing another life into the world, so to speak, or, on the contrary, rather worthless in the grand scheme of things? (Your worth at this juncture in history is determined by how closely you match one of the 174 human archetypes that permit life to continue in the most optimal way, and how compatible the genetic make-up of your archetype is with that of your spouse…of course, generally mismatched archetypes are not allowed to marry, but I digress…) Finally, the DVI confirms the expiration date of the prospective parents – no point in a child being destined to post-traumatic stress syndrome. We have the tools to avoid almost all of the most tragic experiences of times gone by. Almost.

In sum: They investigate, the hopeful parents-to-be check out and the process begins. An egg, a sperm, a dish. The birth specialists at the National Department of Births and Population Control closely watch the cell development and on day seven, it happens: The expiration date. A joke by the Supreme Being, no doubt. A cellular note to destiny that instructs when all systems should shut down. And thus, you know from the moment you can access your chip implant not only that all life ends but more importantly, exactly when yours will. And though the brilliant scientists can figure that out, they have not yet discovered how to modify it without simply destroying the week-old cells and starting over again.

The doting parents with a light in their eyes as they gaze upon their newborn child, are not informed. To do so might impede their ability to love and care for the child to the best of their ability. However, the child will know as soon as he attains the capability to access his chip. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

So, I hate that line. Today more than ever. But I guess I should enjoy the moment: After today, I’ll never hear those words again.

That’s a hard question.

To tell the truth, I don’t know.

One day, I might be dreaming about that person,

The next, I could be thinking about the end of the world.

My mind goes everywhere.

It travels the world without leaving its corner.

Some days, I’ll be thinking about life and morality,

Others, I’ll be thinking about unicorns and ice cream.

.....

It’s complicated.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?”

I never have answers to these questions.

I usually turn to them, smile, and change the subject, or say “Oh, nothing. I was just (spacing out, zoning out, tired, etc.).”

I (can’t, won’t) answer, because I don’t know.

All I know is that my mind goes somewhere where it feels safe

Where I know that I’ll be safe

Even if the thoughts I have will never happen,

I know that at least I can still dream.

You look at me

Through slanted eyes

Narrowing

As you surmise

Presume to know

All I choose to show

Is not just my disguise

But I am more

Than what you see

Knowledge is key

Locked inside the box of prejudice

To be opened by understanding

Which you swept under the carpet of arrogance

And left out on the landing

For you to wipe your feet upon

And then walk on

Walk past

To a whole world of things

That never last

More than a minute

A minute that is not always sixty seconds

But it counted

If you count it

You can slow it down

But discount it

And the truth is found

Time flies

Like society lies

And you look at me with slanted eyes

And yes, my eyes are slanted too

But nature slanted mine

Not my absence of mind

Power beyond me

What you allow yourself to be

Limits what you see

And yes, my eyes are slanted too

But my mind is open wide

Wider than your mouth at birth

When you came screaming out onto this earth

Sliding into the doctor's hands

So he could fasten yours with bands

That tell you who you are

Where you belong

Who's your rightful mom

Rightful mom?

Mom with rights

Birth may have taken her to new heights

But still she fights

To keep a roof over her own head

So to ensure you will be fed

She sold her rights

Never to turn on the lights

So your darkest nights

Are spent alone

In a new home

Groping for a comfort zone

In your seclusion

Mounting confusing

Impending delusion

Mental contusion

Laceration

Rejection of an entire nation...

Oh wait, that's me

Life through my slanted eyes

Now there's a hole in my disguise

I've been fed more than enough lies

To fill the hole

But the whole truth

And nothing but the truth

Is what I seek

And what I speak

You look down from the hightest peak

And no longer see the landing

The landing with the carpet

Under which you swept the understanding

Which would open the box

To release the key

So knowledge is not only lost

But not even sought

Because you won't come down

Long enough for it to be found