100 Words #10

July 1, 2002
Trinity. Trilogy. Triangle. You, and me, and a character who doesn’t even exist. It’s a game more complex than chess and I move my pieces wondering which one of us is the pawn. Surely it couldn’t be me, I created the game. As far as I can tell, you don’t even know you’re playing this game. But again, there is that sly grin of yours, the subtle lift of your eyebrow that hints of something devious on your part. I’m thinking that which is completely made of lies, the third side of our trine, is the only thing innocent anymore.

July 2, 2002
Mistake, she thought as she watched him cross the room towards where she stood. When he reached her side, he extended his hand towards her.

“Hi, I’m Mike. Are you a friend of Jan’s?” He motioned towards a short dark-haired woman on the other side of the room.

“No, I’m a friend of a friend. I’m Kari.” She bared her teeth at him, remembering at the last minute to turn it into a friendly smile rather than a predatory grin.

“Can I get you another drink?” She nods, and as he walks away, wonders what his blood will taste like.

July 3, 2002
A clean slate. What words will I allow you to write there? Turn off all the lights and in the dark, continue to write and maybe you’ll come up with the story of my life. Even if it’s nonsense, it could still be the story of my life. I will admit, sometimes I like it when other people create my life. They do a better job then I would. And even though they write my life, turn me into who they want me to be, you can always find the real me. You just have to read between the lines.

July 4, 2002
He never got used to her vagaries. The impulses that drove her to lay herself down in the middle of the street in the pouring rain to feel the water rushing past her. Or the time she took a bottle of wine and a book to a local department store with the intention of sitting on one of their couches for several hours to test it out. She wasn’t even in need of a couch. Sometimes her impulses frightened him, but he would bite his tongue and say nothing. Some things are meant to be untamed. She’s one of them.

July 5, 2002
Allusions, delusions, half her life is not her own. She's an idea masquerading as an image and no one sees through her charade. She says, "People are unintentionally cruel. They see only what they expect to see, no more no less, regardless of how their chosen blindness can hurt those who really need to be seen, yet aren't substantial enough to do it on their own."

But she beat their odds. She added a dash of glitter, a splash of glitz, and now they see her all the time. "Nope, not me. I'm never going to be a fade-away person."

July 6, 2002
Me, with my camera, I fell behind. I carefully made my way across the rocks, stopping every now and then to take a picture of a rock or a shell that caught my interest. I didn’t notice the man fishing until he spoke.

“Hey, pussy, where’re you going? They’re going to get you pussy.” At least that’s what I thought he said, but maybe I imagined it. Whatever the case, I stared at him and for some reason it unnerved him. He muttered something and turned back towards his fishing rod, but his glances over his shoulder revealed his uneasiness.

July 7, 2002
"So, what next?" He looked at me expectantly.

"I don't know, why don't you think of something?" I tried to keep my voice casual, and it must have worked, for he didn't notice the edge creeping into it.

"Nah, you're better than that then I am. You choose."

"Why don't you stick you head in the oven while I kiss your ass good-bye." I muttered, tired of being his source of entertainment.

"What did you say?" He leaned closer.

"I said, 'you look like you could use some extra loving, let me make you an apple pie." I smiled.

"Okay."

July 8, 2002
Sometimes it’s like talking to a wall. For all that you are sitting next to me, I think you hear me less than the walls do. And you will wonder one day why I’ve stopped talking to you. Why I often stand in the corner whispering my secrets for no else to hear. I know who listens. If these walls could talk, they would tell you what a fool you’ve been. Maybe you should check, just in case. Place your ear against the wall, and maybe you’ll hear the remnant of a whisper telling you maybe it’s not too late.

July 9, 2002
Awakening.
It's like a flower unfurling its petals
in the pit of my stomach.
A Fire Rose,
extending tendrils of flame upwards
and downwards,
warming, but not scorching.

"You would think the wetness down there would put out those flames." He said, a smile on his face, his hand on my thigh.

Awakened.
Until I met him,
I hadn't realized I was sleeping.
I thought it was always cold
and impersonal.
But he's a gardener.
he made that seedling bloom.

"Tell me you'll burn only for me." He demanded, his hand slipping upwards, the smile now on my face.

Awake.

July 10, 2002
"It's the silence." She says. "The silence is what's making the walls seem so close tonight."

She turns on the radio, upping the volume as loud as she can while still keeping it within a respectable range. She carefully sits in the middle of the floor and picks up her book. But she can't read. Every time she tries to, the walls seem to flicker.

"Stop it!" She threw her book at the far wall and scrambled to her feet. With a sob, she ran out the door and past her neighbor who rolled his eyes and muttered "not again".

July 11, 2002
“I don’t understand how they can do it.” She gestured to a woman leaning into a car window.

“Well, it’s not that unusual. We all sell some part of ourselves for the almighty dollar.” The woman in the black leather shorts walked around to the other side of the car.

“But not sex.” She watched the woman get into the car.

“Maybe sex is more honest. At least it is something completely hers to give. Most of us sell promises, empty, intangible words.” The car sped away.

Well, we get more for our promises than she will for her sex.”

July 12, 2002
You see, his lips are thin and cruel looking. He stares, and I stand paralyzed, my heart beating fast, knowing I should flee, yet drawn to that cruelness all the same. And then he smiles. Warm and wonderful, beautiful and charming, promising mischief and laughter, and secret kisses in darkened hallways. And this smile scares me more than any threat of cruelness did.

He said, “Why do you expect everyone to always be cruel. Why can’t you believe someone may not mean you harm?”

But how can I trust someone whose smile changes them from a devil to a hero?

July 13, 2002
Chameleon. I can be whatever you want me to be. I can close my eyes for just one second, open them and you'll find I'm someone else. They say leopards don't change their spots, but this cat changes hers almost daily. Camouflage. I can slip right into your life and you won't know I'm there until you trip over me in the dark. And you won't notice I've left again until you trip over the empty air now filling the place where I use to sit. Always remember, sometimes I'll choose not to be what you want me to be.

July 14, 2002
He won first place in a soapbox derby once. And he had two stuffed animals that he loved, a chimp with a rubber banana, and a green dinosaur whose tail swung back and forth. He swears he saw a UFO. He read the Hobbit and wanted to be one. He once had dreams, just like anybody else. But he’s buried them somehow, and doesn’t remember where.

And you don’t really care to know this, but I wanted to give him a face. When they find him dead, overdose maybe, if the dealers don’t get him first, he’ll have a face.

July 15, 2002
“I had that dream again.” She cradled her coffee mug in her hands as she watched the cream slowly dissolve. “You know, the one where I look through the peephole but someone is blocking it with their hand.”

“Hmm… I wonder what you’re trying to keep out.” He sipped his coffee, wincing as it burned his tongue.

“What makes you think I’m trying to keep something out?” She blew on her coffee before sipping it.

“Oh, I know you dear. You’re always trying to keep something out.” He blew on his coffee she shrugged and added more sugar to hers.

July 16, 2002
It hadn't rained in 36 days. A water shortage put the ban on watering lawns and grumpy men wept while they sat on their porches and watched their once emerald green lawns turn brown. They cringed when visitors crossed their lawn, crunching and crackling the grass beneath their heavy feet. Housewives secretly rejoiced as they watched their children slip on the same shorts for the third day in a row, even knowing they would eventually have to catch up on the back load. Children openly rejoiced as they sponged off rather than bathed, neglecting to get behind their ears. Drought.

July 17, 2002
Moanday, Bluesday, Whensday, Turdsday, Fryday… I never thought I would be the type of person who lives for the weekend. But lately it seems that’s the only time my life is real. Worth living. Everything else is just make-believe, something to do until those two days of freedom get here. A time passer, like the magazines you find in a doctor’s office, dog-eared and tattered. Now I can’t remember when I stopped making every day count and just started counting the days left until the weekend. Mundaneday, Attitudesday, Wet-hensday, Thirstday, Fieday. Surely they can still count for something, can’t they?

July 18, 2002
I'll never, ever be her little kitty-cat girl again, she thought as he used his free hand to finish ripping off her panties. His other hand was busy pinning her arms above her head. Did I tell her how much I loved her and dad the last time I talked to her? She felt a warm stickiness creep into her ear and wondered if he had broken her nose when he punched her. I forgot to call her last night. He hollered "shut-up bitch" and hit her in the face again, breaking her teeth and filling her mouth with blood.

July 19, 2002
The ghosts gathered behind the tombstones and cowered as they stared at the woman who sat in the middle of the graveyard, crouched today in front of one of the stones whose name had long since been weathered away.

What does she want? She's lost no one. I don't smell death on her. Why does she cry? What does she mourn? She frightens me.

Wrapped up in her grief, the woman rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face, but no sound escaping her lips. The ghosts, having forgotten what it is to be human, looked on in confusion.

July 20, 2002
You really have no reason to trust me. But you do. I’ve only told you (and everyone else for that matter) wide-eyed does not equal innocent fifty times before, yet you still choose to believe in my wide-eyed innocence. And because of this, I don’t know whether to look at you as a hero or a fool. Does that mean I think I am untrustworthy? Not really. I know just how far I can trust me. I’m mostly almost completely honest. And there you come with your trusting, big brown eyes, and I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t be trusting you.

July 21, 2002
When she awoke, he was sitting next to the bed, holding a glass of scotch. He stared at her, but shadows refused to show her the expression on his face. He seemed to prefer shadows, she mused, but then she thought about the scars on his back, about the silver slits of his eyes, and decided maybe the shadows preferred him. His stare unnerved her, and she pulled the sheet closer to her as she sat up. He chuckled, leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hand.

“You can shield your body, child, but never your soul.” He whispered.

July 22, 2002
And then the rains came. At first, people cheered the dark storm clouds and the torrential downpours they brought. But then the weekend approached with no blue skies in sight, and plans got canceled and the people got nasty. They called Mother Nature an unfit mother, shaking their fists to the sky. They swore and kicked their feet, and wished all living green things dead. Such fickle children, such fierce temper tantrums. But Mother Nature, queen of everything, never expected them to be anything but fickle and fierce. It’s what spoiled little children do best. And it continued to rain.

July 23, 2002
"Do you have the death of a loved one?" I ask, looking at my cards.

"Here you go." You hand over that card.

"Sex abuse?" I ask after setting down the other match.

"Go fish. Do you have a sister who is perfect?" You go for the easy one.

"Here you go." I toss you the card.

"How about an angry, always screaming father." You ask in vain.

"Sorry, take a hike to the lake and go fish. Do you have poverty?"

"Fish."

But we soon get bored of this game. How about Pinochle, I know I can win that!

July 24, 2002
They found him cowering in the bathroom, his hands, arms and chest a mass of eroded flesh. His girlfriend cried in the hallway, babbling about this obsession he had developed that his tattoos would move around at night, when the lights were out. She told them how he brought home a jug of acid and started pouring it over himself, how his screams had echoed in their small apartment.

“His tattoos didn’t really come to life, did they?” She whimpered. The young police officer taking her report shook his head as he rubbed at his own tattoo through his shirt.

July 25, 2002
The sign flashed pink then yellow, then green, then blue, the word “LOVE” all but shouting out for attention. She stood at the foot of the sign, her belly not unlike a basketball. She shook her fist at the sign.

“You want love? I’ll tell you about love! All love will get you is a snatch full of sperm and no man to account for it.” She shouted at a young girl and boy as they edged their way past her. “Love. Ha! If you’re really lucky, he’ll give you crabs too!”

Mall security finally arrived to escort her out.

July 26, 2002
"Cats almost always land on their feet. That's what I'm counting on." She said coolly, but the worried look didn't quite leave her eyes.

"But that's not always true. There are times when they don't. And sometimes, even landing on their feet, they sustain damage." He flicked a piece of lint off of the arm of his suit.

"Don't you think I know that? Please, allow me my fantasies, we'll know soon enough if I land on my feet or not." Her voice was thick with emotion. He looked at her, intrigued.

"Wow, you really are worried, aren't you? Interesting."

July 27, 2002
He entered Montgomery with Mississippi mud still clinging to his shoes, and too many ghosts riding on his back. His wife wasn't expecting him. The floods weren't over, but he had slipped on his last rescue, a jagged piece of metal ripping up his hand. One hundred and fifty-four stitches.

Now he sits in his hotel room, wishing for a gun... wishing he could erase the image of his wife and her lover... wishing for a drink strong enough to numb the pain. Wondering why out of twenty-seven lives he had saved, he could only remember the one he hadn't.

July 28, 2002
"I remember what it's like to drown." She sat at the end of the pier, her feet dangling into the warm waters of Stony Creek. "But I've never drowned, not even in my dreams."

"Dreams are strange." He murmured, entranced by the play of sunlight through her hair.

"I suppose it's because I did some work for Mnemosyne. Of course, you might know him as Thoth, or Ferth." She smiled at the ripple left behind by a leaping fish. "Memory deities are tricky. While working with them, you always end up with the residue of memories that aren't your own."

July 29, 2002
"I've lost myself in you." I said, wondering if I looked as bewildered as I felt.

"I know. I found you." He kissed my forehead, a light, feathery brush of his lips, but even that almost floored me and I clutched his shoulders tightly.

"Do you think you could give me back?" My voice barely a whisper, I rested my head on his chest.

"Oh, I don't know, finders keepers and all..." He had slipped his hand under the back of my shirt and now traced random patterns on the base of my spine. "No, I think I'll keep you."

July 30, 2002
I’m in trouble. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this much trouble before. But if I’ve painted myself into a corner, maybe I can just paint myself out. Or maybe I should just say “Fuck the paint job” and run like hell, not caring about the tracks I leave behind, or the paint stains on my shoes. I should have remembered things fall apart before I started this whole thing. But I didn’t know it was going to go so far. And now the cracks are starting to show, and I’m the only one there is to blame. Again.

July 31, 2002
He’s running out of gas, and she’s running circles around him. But she’s going to get bored with circles soon, and start dreaming about a straight line out of there. It’s not just the age difference; she’s always been this way. She thinks things have to advance, and if they are not going to go forward, they might as well not go at all. Stationary. Nothing bores her more. Even when she’s sitting still, her mind is racing one hundred and five miles an hour (that’s five miles about the recommended speed limit for those of you who don’t know).