100 Words #12

September 1, 2002
“… and that’s why I never buy…” As he ended his story, he flashed her a grin. Her return smile made him very glad he had placed his napkin over his lap. Shifting uncomfortably and mentally cursing himself for having a reaction he thought he had outgrown in puberty, he studied her while she studied the menu. He told himself that her smile wasn’t even that great, it was a little crooked, but that didn’t stop him from fishing through his memories for more stories to tell her. “Did I ever tell you about…”

He gave thanks for linen napkins.

September 2, 2002
At first, they thought it was cute that she always pretended to be a cat. They allowed her to curl up on their laps and stroked her back as she rumbled out a rusty sounding purr. But then they startled her, and she hissed and struck out, leaving five thin red lines in the wake of her hand. They eyed her warily, but still said nothing. It wasn’t until they caught her crouched over the body of a small rodent, blood and fur caught between her teeth, growling and eyeing them suspiciously, that they admitted she wasn’t playing make-believe anymore.

September 3, 2002
I’ll bet you’ve never heard the true ending of Hansel and Gretel, have you? They charged the father with abandonment. His lawyer tried to get him off by pointing out how stressed out he was, what with the malicious new wife and the stupidity of the children (a trail of breadcrumbs, sheesh!). It didn’t work; he got ten with chance of parole in five. Hansel got put into Foster care; he’s doing all right, never-mind a few nightmares here and there. And Gretel? They stuck her in Juvie, with all intents of trying her for murder when she reaches eighteen.

September 4, 2002
He asked her to accept the promises he made but he told her it was unlikely for him to keep them. He thought it really wouldn't matter to her, that she was wise enough to know that a promise of the moon and those distant shining stars was nothing but a pipe dream to begin with.

She thinks about it a bit and tells him she applauds his honesty. And she accepts his promises he intends on breaking. In return, she makes him no promises. In the end, she wants to be able to say she always kept her word.

September 5, 2002
“Hey Jim, pour me another glass of sorrow, would you?” She slipped him a five, waving away her change when he set it and the glass of whiskey in front of her. Her hair was a brassy shade of red tonight, and did little to compliment the bright turquoise shirt she wore with her jeans. “See any good ones Jim?”

“Not tonight, Lissa. I think the good ones stayed home.” He said this every night she came in, but she always left with someone.

“Thanks, Jim.” She took her drink surveyed the crowd for someone else to end her loneliness.

September 6, 2002
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I think of you. Where are you? Where have your nearly sightless eyes taken you? Are you lost and lonely, wondering why those who love you haven’t found you? Are you hurt and scared, wondering why those you call your heroes haven’t rescued you yet? Did the bad men get you? Did they rip into you, leaving you torn and bleeding in some dirty, trash-filled alley, a treat for hungry rats? Is your skin now blue and cold, your sightless eyes permanently so? Where are you? I think we’ll never know.

September 7, 2002
I feel like every month I bleed for you. Delicately cutting into my heart with the sharpest of fountain pens, I let my blood pour out across the paper, forming letters, then words, then sentences, all creating images of things I’ve no other way to explain. Then I find what I have given you crumpled up and tossed into the wastebasket next to your desk. Red ink hurts my eyes, you say, seeing only what you want to see.

Here I’ve given you little pieces of my soul and you think them merely words. For you, I’ll bleed no more.

September 8, 2002
I watched him lurch across the parking lot, his arms held stiffly at his side, and I thought to myself, some people are never comfortable in their skins. I have a friend who is a good example of this, everything he does seems forced, like he’s an alien invader poorly imitating the human host. His laugh always sounds faked, his dancing is like a horse counting, and his singing, while loud and enthusiastic, would even make the tone-deaf wince. He does it all badly, but he does it badly with passion. Maybe some people are just born with no rhythm?

September 9, 2002
Is it only age that makes one a woman or a man? (no rude comments about genitals, please) Or is it something else, something more intangible? He called me an "extraordinarily unique and talented woman" and it sounded strange to hear the term "woman" applied to me. Am I ready to be a woman, or have I no choice? Sometimes, while speeding down the road in my car, I get the feeling that I'm not old enough to have responsibility to handle such a potentially dangerous machine, how can I be a woman, when I feel like such a child?

September 10, 2002
It’s not going to be a pretty autumn this year, the drought has taken its toll. Some of the trees are making a valiant effort, and you can see their leaves trying to paint themselves orange and red and yellow. But most leaves are falling off paper-bag brown and rotted.

Time does not heal all wounds. Many of these trees will never get over this devastating drought, the long winter will find them rotting on the inside and not even Spring’s loving touch will revive them.

Why do I feel like humans are so much like trees in this regard?

September 11, 2002
Like me, you dream of flying. But where you dream of flying towards something, I dream of flying away. Either way, it’s a taste of freedom we’re both after, a heady brew that often leaves our heads reeling and our hearts pounding. It’s a sensation I crave and so I’m always searching for substitutes, for anything that can make my head spin and my heart beat a little faster.

I caught him staring the other day, the question clear in his eyes. He’s asking me to fly, but can I risk taking flight lessons from a man such as him?

September 12, 2002
She ran until she thought her lungs would burst, until the tree root snagged her foot and brought her down. She rolled into the underbrush, wincing as rough vines abraded her skin. Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she concentrated on quieting the wheezing of her breath. She couldn’t hear him, but she knew he was coming, she could tell by the sudden silence of the birds. Praying frantically for him not to see her, but not relying on prayer alone, she felt around the ground, closing her hand around a decent sized rock.

She wasn’t going to be an easy victim.

September 13, 2002
The winter boys are on their way. I can see them, black coats, black boots, striding towards me through the fresh white snow. They’ll stop a couple of yards from me and cock their heads in a way that challenges me to do something more than shiver in my many layers. I’ll reach a bare hand to them (gloves forgotten somewhere at home) and they’ll take it, pulling me into their fold. Oh, they’re cold, my winter boys are, but whenever their lips meet mine, something melts.

And I’m the only splash of color in their black and white world.

September 14, 2002
They reach out… stroke her hair… tenderly, but still she freezes, giving them the feeling that they’ve cornered a rabbit. To give her credit, when they stop touching her she doesn’t bolt, she just steps out of their range. If they ever notice that she doesn’t ever touch them back, they don’t let on. There are a few she allows to touch her willingly, enjoying the sensations of being stroked and petted. And she’ll touch them back, hesitantly until she sees they don’t cringe. But mostly, touch just confuses her. Leaves her scared and worried about what they might want.

September 15, 2002
They watched as the sun rose, casting golden glints across the waters of Stony Creek, adding golden glints to her eyes.

“Ra used to be a generous God. He was loved by, and in return, loved his people.” She tossed a rock into the water and watched the ripples grow then fade.

“What happened to him?”

“He became old, bitter. Sure his people loved him, but in the insubstantial way a mortal can only love a god. He still races across the sky everyday, but he’s taken away his protection, letting the sun damage instead of heal. Now take, Anubis...”

September 16, 2002
Tonight, your words broke through. Something about their sincerity reached me, and I realized for the first time that there is a person behind this black and white script. Which makes me suspect there are people behind all the posts. But I’m not ready to admit the rest are human yet, for now they can just remain as words.

“Why do you dehumanize them?” He asks, not quite sure what to make of me.

“It’s easier that way, no involvements.” Is the only answer I can give him. He knows I like barriers and finally accepts this as another one.

September 17, 2002
“They’ll be coming for me, you know.” He watched her as she slept, her hair spread out across the pillow, one hand tucked under her chin. He brushed an errant strand of hair away from her forehead then leaned forward and left a kiss in its place. A burning sensation flared through the scars on his back, and his grip on her shoulder tightened, waking her.

“They’re closer than you think.” Though they were her words she knew not where they came from, and she stared at him, her confusion making her appear all the more vulnerable. “Run. Run now!”

September 18, 2002
“You like a challenge, don’t you?” Standing behind her, he snagged a fist full of her hair and pulled her head back so she had no choice but to look at him.

“No… yes… well, maybe…” She managed to say. He released her hair and spun her chair around to face him.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with.” He covered her mouth with his, and as the kiss deepened, he slipped down to the floor, pulling her on top of him.

And you, she thought, feeling him hard and ready beneath her, never really knew what the challenge was.

September 19, 2002
How can I feel grief for losing something I’ve never had? I remember the first time I had this feeling, back when I was only seven. We were driving in our car, and we rode past a lit up house showing a family sitting down for dinner. Something sharp and spindly pierced straight through me, leaving me both empty and aching when I realized I would never have that life, that theirs was a family that wouldn’t be mine. Such an intangible feeling as that is hard for a child to understand. Hell, I’m not sure I understand even now.

September 20, 2002
Look into his eyes and you can tell he knows too much. There is no innocence in those eyes, there is only calculation, wariness, and something else, something dark. Something that makes me take a step back. He smiles at my retreat. Careful little girl, I think you see too much of you in me. His voice is barely louder than a whisper and makes me want to lean closer. I want to deny his words, but I was never one to deny the truth. Now I must decide, do I walk away or do I step into his darkness?

September 21, 2002
The question about hopes and dreams always comes up, and she winces whenever it does. They all hope for grand things. Nobel prize winning dreams. Her dreams are always silly. She wants to pet a tiger, it’s at the top of her list of dreams. She also wants to photograph a ghost. She wanted to visit a castle as well, and she obtained that goal. She doesn’t like to share her dreams with others. She’s afraid they’ll laugh, or tell her to grow up. But she doesn’t think dreams should always be so serious. You know what? Neither do I.

September 22, 2002
Where will I let you take me? His dark brown eyes questioned hers, though his lips spoke not a word.

I will take you to a place some call paradise, and others hell. She watched his lips, wondering what they would feel like pressed against hers.

I don’t know if I can follow you. I don’t know if I have the strength. He could feel a sweat break out on his brow when her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

You don’t need strength, you need courage. She threw him a smile over her shoulder, knowing he would follow.

September 23, 2002
Charlatan. It’s a cheaters game where the rules change daily and only those with true deceit in their hearts can keep up. Sham. And you, my little swindler, are breaking all the rules. Which is acceptable in this game, for the only real rule is all rules can be broken. Ripped and torn asunder.

“You, my love, are the trickiest of all, for no one ever suspects you of treachery.” He lightly tapped me on the nose. “But I know just what you’re capable of.”

But he was wrong. There were more depths to my guile than even he knew.

September 24, 2002
Why do some people go insane and others not? Why am I not howling at the moon and gnashing my teeth in frustration? Haven’t I lived through hard times? Haven’t I seen too much in too short of a time? Or maybe I am insane. Maybe my insanity just manifested in a more rational form, letting me function in a day-by-day world. There have certainly been days when I believed lunacy would have been the easier path to follow. Why am I able to resist when so many others don’t? Or can’t.

Maybe I shouldn’t assume sanity is a choice.

September 25, 2002
Delirium. Not enough sleep and you feel your sanity coming apart at the seams. It’s an interesting time. You can feel the edges fraying, and you sort of know you’re losing it. So you scramble to keep the ends together, but they slip right through your fingers. Sleep is the glue that holds these threads together, but sleep has become elusive for you. You think about chasing it down with a net like you would butterflies in a meadow, but then you realize the ridiculousness of that notion. Again those threads are loosening.

Close your eyes. Go to sleep now.

September 26, 2002
Feathers. She remembers dreaming about feathers. Soft, white, fluffy feathers. Sleek, black, oily feathers. Blood red feathers. Speckled brown feathers. Sooty gray feathers. She can still close her eyes and feel them slide across her skin. Feel them become her skin.

“I dreamt I could fly. And I could fly as high as I wanted to. Unlike Icarus.” She held her arms out and spun in circles, until a sound not unlike the rustling of feathers filled her head. “My wings and I were one and the same, they were not held together with wax.”

How she wanted to fly.

September 27, 2002
Sometimes, when he’s alone in the house, he closes his eyes and listens. At first, all of the sounds overwhelm him. The creaks and groans, the rustling and scrabbling, the ticks and the tocks. It eventually all comes down to the ticks and the tocks. He swears he can hear every single clock in the house counting out time, grudgingly doling out second after second like a skinflint paying his bills.

He was so sure this constant ticking would one day drive him insane, so he replaced all his clocks with hourglasses. Now he counts sand, one grain after another…

September 28, 2002
“Time will tell.” They said. “Our blood runs through your veins, you’ll soon see you’re just like us.”

But what they always fail to realize is my blood is now my own. I’ve bled enough over the course of my lifetime to have drained my body several times over. My body, the factory. Okay, so I have your genes, but that’s superficial. And believe me, if there were anyway I could get rid of that, you’d be receiving my eviction notice within the hour.

“The apple never falls far from the tree.” They say.

But I am not an apple.

September 29, 2002
He wants. He wants. He wants. He’s a man of strong wanting, and he’s used to getting what he wants. But this time, he’s fighting it, because this time it’s forbidden. So he fights, he fights, and he fights… but he’s afraid he’s losing the battle. Especially when he turns the corner too quickly and finds her practically in his arms. For a second they are completely still, staring into each other’s eyes. And he sees reflections of war in her eyes. She wants. She wants. She wants.

Two weary soldiers. Who ever knew a second could reveal so much?

September 30, 2002
“I’m tired of this situation.” She eyed the door with longing.

“It’s only a situation because you make it one.” He followed her gaze towards the door.

“No. You’re wrong. It’s a situation. A very bad situation.” She stepped towards the door, stopping only when he grabbed her wrist.

“You can’t keep running away. It isn’t healthy. Damn it, why do you do this?” His tightened grip and raised voice brought a hint of fear to her eyes. And a look of acceptance. He quickly let go of her wrist. “Oh no. You are not placing me in that role.”