Silent shade...

...The seam below

Now bursts apart

As sun will go

Into the dark...

...Your secret claim!...

This cactus flower

Fostered in pain.

There's always someone 

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone 

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

This dismal hour...

It was unsigned,

But then in fear

Loose lips confined...

...And damned us all

To boilerplates...

From worlds unknown

To certain fate.

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

There's always someone

Tries to fill in the creases!...

©

2017

Bunny Villaire 

Frederick and Aurora’s marriage was arranged for political purposes.They dutifully consummated their relationship to produce an heir and a spare – Gustav and Phillip. Like most crown princes, Gustav VI was named after his paternal grandfather, His brother was named Phillip after their maternal grandfather. This naming for grandparents is normal in royal circles where children are named for either parents or grandparents depending upon who holds the wealth and power at the time of their birth. Frederick and Aurora would eventually be king and queen, but had not yet ascended their thrones when the boys were named. Having completed their procreative obligation, further sexual encounters between Frederick and Aurora became unnecessary. They went on to live lives of service, duty and obligation. When service, duty and obligation required the presence of the full royal family, the boys would be trotted out. On all other occasions, their care and education was seen to by a series of tutors, governesses and others hired for the purpose.

Charles and Patrice began their life with little but a work-ethic. He was a merchant and she was an artist. By the time Eleanor, their only child, was born, both had begun to find success. Charles soon owned shops in several counties, and a trio of ships to retrieve unique goods from abroad. Patrice’s artwork found favor with Queen Aurora, and hence became the fashion of all the court. She could not produce enough to fulfill the demand. . The couple’s finances allowed them to buy an estate, and with it the title of Count and Countess, minor nobles to be sure, but nobles.

Patrice was a loving mother when it came time to play and dress her auburn-haired daughter. Her work kept her busy, and she gave over the messier aspects of motherhood to servants. Charles’s was often out of town on business. Upon returning, he assuaged the guilt about his absences by giving extravagant presents.

Shortly after Eleanor's seventh birthday, Patrice died while mixing paints. It was not clear if she had mishandled some toxic pigment or simply had an allergic reaction. Charles, crushed by the loss of his soulmate, threw himself deeper into his business. Eleanor’s care was left entirely to servants. If they dared to discipline her during Charles’ travels, she would accuse them of abuse on his return. Trusting his daughter’s version of her treatment, he would fire those who had been accused He never questioned what his daughter told him, and the servants who wished to remain employed began to allow her to do whatever she wished to avoid retribution. As long as she remained safe and fed, they ceased to bother with her care.

Following a particularly long trip, Charles came home with Berta, a new wife. She had been born into nobility. She was the widow of a duke who had left her well-off. She brought the duke’s estate as a dowry to her new marriage. Elegant, well-mannered and deeply in love with Charles, she wanted to marry him the first time they met. It took her a few months to get him to ask her. Along with the lands, she brought with her two daughters who were in the midst of transitioning from gawky teenager to pretty young women.

As a nouveau royal, her own mother had been ill-equipped to prepare Eleanor to enter life at court. Berta, however, had a lifetime of experience among royals. She began to work with the girl on manners and decorum that would eventually allow her to explore the privilege to which her father's peerage entitled her. Eleanor, who had long been bereft of discipline or guidance, fought her stepmother at every step.

Charles left shortly on another trip. Eleanor acted out, but Berta was having none of it. Servants could be fired, but she was the lady of the manor. When Eleanor threw dishes on the floor, Berta made her clean them up herself and then made her get down on her knees and scrub the floor. When she wiped her muddy hands on clean linens, Berta required her to wash and press them herself. Eleanor had never been punished, much less been given housework to do. She stormed into her room and refused to eat at the table with the family. Berta barred her from her own room, and sent her to the kitchen. She did not have to sit with family, but she would not be allowed the pleasure of all the playthings and books in her own room.

Feeling Berta was the enemy, Eleanor tried to make allies of her step-sisters. They were 17 and 18, and she was only 15. As they got older, that would be a very small difference, but it is all the difference in the world when one is young. Though they would occasionally tolerate her company, and even tried to include her, they didn’t appreciate always having her tag along and get in their way.

Gustav grew older. As the future king, he was paraded out more and more often, Following his 19th birthday, he went abroad to visit the courts of other lands and to meet potential mates. His parents had made it clear that he needed to marry by his 21st birthday. He had an obligation to get on with procreating in order to guarantee the future of the monarchy. If he could not find a suitable queen, his parents would. In every court in which he found a suitable woman, he found her already promised to another. The only one that was both suitable and available respectfully declined his offer though she would give him no reason why. Eighteen months later, he returned to his parents’ palace a far more accomplished diplomat, but with no prospects. With six months to go, word went out that there would be a birthday celebration at which he would select his future queen.

Plans began immediately both inside and outside the castle. All unmarried women of noble family above the age of 16 were invited to the gala. Weavers, tailors, wigmakers, jewelers and cobblers had commissions to make the finest wares ever. Every servant and every noble woman who had skills with needle and thread went to work in creating finery.

Berta’s daughters were both eligible. Eleanor was not. At 15 she was excluded. Eleanor was too young. It was a matter of a few months, but it was enough deny her. There was much to do to get her sisters ready, but Eleanor mostly just sulked. On the day of the ball, she sulked by the fireplace in the kitchen and ended up covered in soot. She tried to come up with arguments to change Berta’s mind, but the decision was not in her hands.

Berta and her daughters rode along with a neighbor to the palace in a hired coach. Eleanor moped and stomped about the house. She caught site of herself in a mirror, then laughed as a plan came into focus. She bathed and scrubbed herself clean. She had no new dress, but had the fanciful gowns her mother used to wear when they played dress-up. She could not put up her own hair and had no wig, so braided her auburn tresses in a single rope down her back. The shoes from her mother’s dress-up chest were as fanciful as the dress – tiny ballet flats encrusted with crystals.

She had no horse to take her to the palace, so she tied up the hem of her gown to keep it out of the dirt, and put on her walking boots and carried her fancy shoes She would be late by a couple of hours, but the ball would go on all night. She managed to be at the palace by 11 p.m. She let down her dress, put on her ballet flats, and stowed her boots behind a rock on the road, She took a deep breath and entered the castle boldly. There was no one at the door to announce her; neither was there anyone to block her way.

Among the older, made-up, heavily coifed, and fashionably styled women, she stood out. She was clean, fresh-faced and very beautiful in a gown several seasons out of style, but which accentuated her body. It did not take long for Gustav to spot her. Before he could get to her, however, Berta had also spotted her and told her to go home.

Her own step-mother called on a nearby page to escort her out. She explained that her high-spirited daughter had snuck in and needed to leave. Eleanor made a horrible scene as she fought with the page. Undeterred, he picked her up, carried her out and dumped her into a carriage. He just had time to duck as one of her crystal encrusted shoes went flying past his head. He locked the door and she was taken home. .

It didn’t take Gustav long to find her. Both the page and the carriage’s driver worked for the castle. Prince Gustav arrived on horseback and returned the slipper. Eleanor had settled down and behaved like a lady when he came. Their marriage was delayed a bit past his 21st birthday to allow her to reach the age of 16.

History, of course, is written by the victors – or by those who work for them. Whenever a historical writing ends “and they lived happily ever after” one should approach it with a certain amount of skepticism. In fact, Gustav and Eleanor (or Ella as he called her) did live reasonably happy lives. They lived lives of service, duty and obligation. They had a daughter named Aurora, named for her paternal grandmother, but Aurora’s birth is a whole other story

Tressa laid back in the heat, with her arms sprawled out, on her flowered bedspread.  Her mother was far from her thoughts now.  The blue and grey flowers superimposed themselves on each other as Tressa began to drift in thought. In a trance, she studied the details of the pattern on the blanket from the left corner of her eye.  Her mother had been a bitch to suggest it was time to come home soon during her most recent phone call.  Why did she always have to challenge Tressa's decisions?  She returned to inanely glancing at the fabric she was swaddled, and then was driven deeper, as she found a frayed hole that she began to toy with in the hand made, ancestral fabric.  Partially fascinated in a far off way, Tressa would stick one finger in and pop it out, trying to get faster with every revolution.  Her bored face hung with the slack expression of an ape, rolling her eyes as she abandoned the finger popping, and returned to her previous efforts of lazily yanking the remaining petals off the daisy she had brought back, for tortuous ends, from the supermarket.  Her mother was off her mind entirely now.  Rolling over from her side, she bent her head and neck at a awkward angle to better gaze back at the hallway that had been blowing gusts of cold air onto her sticky back.  She then tossed the flower carcass away from the bed, and rolled back towards the big bay window.  She glanced at the hanging lavender curtain of luxurious silks that formed a crest above the window frame.  It made her think of the silk panties she was wearing with the over-sized band tee-shirt inscribed with the green letters 'Naked Lunch'.  Without thinking, she speed-dialed her Dad in Michigan, and got him on the first ring.  

"How you doing there, Champ?"

"Pretty good Daddy, but I feel paralyzed from this weather.  I did get to check out some hot springs, though, and I think there's some real pretty caves pretty close to Aunt Janus'."

"Why don't you join half of California, and submerge yourself, darlin'!  That's why all of these houses on the hill come equipped with a swimming pool.  Either that or head to the ocean.  I shouldn't have to tell you, it makes me seize up with jealousy when I think about how you live!"

"Your right, Dad, I just get so heavy sometimes.  I think it came with the smash-up with my Harley."

"Well, you take care sweetheart, and don't stop calling me.  The guys at the office think I'm making up my big important daughter in the Valley, and now I got some more gossip for those jerks to chew on.  Thanks doll."

This summer had slipped away from her at lightening speeds.  It had been a major drag to the ninth degree since her accident.  Tressa was furiously determined to the make summer the best it could be, and not take her remaining time for granted.  Her tumble from the motorcycle had rocked her world, and it had left her bed-ridden in a coma for months.  Now here she was, given a second chance, and yet crippled by the responsibility of having to choose with each new day what she should do with herself in such a foreign environment then what she was use to.  It was ironic, and left a strange taste in her mouth.  There were so few precious days remaining before she had to figure out what her first community college would be.  For now she was taking a break at her Aunt's house in Borrego Springs.  She drew herself to her bedpost with her legs and pushed her crotch against the post.  Rocking continually into the post, in a way she had taught herself from experience, her eyes closed in rapture, and her lips parted.  She had been doing it lately and it felt so good, as opposed to her earlier existential feeling.  She had seen some boys digging in her Aunt's backyard yesterday, outside her bedroom, and it made her wonder if there was buried treasure stashed anywhere in this small, forgotten town.  Her thoughts wandered back to the boy with brown unkempt hair piled on his head like a imperfect storm she longed to be tangled in.  His hair was a caramel swirl, and in that moment he looked up at her, and she came, her body settling back on the bed in five separate waves of out of bodied pleasure.  The idea of seeing him again perked her up enough to finally pry her wet body from the post, change her panties, and go into the kitchen in search of some coffee, hopefully still warming itself in the pot in anticipation of her arrival.

(To be continued)

©

2017

Bunny Villaire 

Saturday, May 9, 1998

Ryan fucked up everything. I finally found the girl of my dreams. I finally had a night I wanted to remember. I finally found the key to my happiness, something I’ve been searching for, for God knows how long. And here comes Ryan fucking everything up.

I hate him. I hate him more than I hate my own life. I hate him more than I hate every person on Earth that has done me wrong. I hate him with all the power vested in me.

For a moment in time, I thought I was wrong about not being able to love. I thought maybe I was changing for the better. Now, I have no soul, and a person without a soul can feel nothing but an emptiness that should be full of brimming emotions.

Nothing comforts me but rage and hatred. They’re the only things that get me through my nights of sorrow and hopelessness. I often wonder why I despise things so much. Why I wish death and agony on almost every person in my life…Took me awhile to realize, but now I know. You can’t experience hatred without ever feeling love. And I’ve loved so many things, so many people that never loved me back. After wishing for years that my love would be reciprocated, my heart finally gave up and instead inverted my love to unnerving hostility.

Until Samiya shoved her way in, murder steered my thoughts. I wanted to hurt people till they begged for mercy I’d never give. I wanted them to suffer like I have for so long. Night after night, I dreamed of blisters on my fingers from pulling the trigger over and over. The blood of the innocent on my hands was like a trophy for being courageous and callous. Dreams millions would consider chilling nightmares put the happiest smiles on my face.

Then, she came and took the ropes. And jumbled up everything I knew before. Me and Ryan have planned Mission: No Going Back for months, and now, I don’t have the heart to do it. Just last week all I needed was balls. Now, I have the balls and an indifferent heart.

But as much as I hate him, he’s supposed to come over tonight so we can set up the propane bombs. I might as well go through with the mission if Samiya hates me. Hopefully, no one catches us—

“Knock, knock.” My head shoots up from the journal I pour my thoughts into. I regain my composure and glower at my mother standing in the doorway. Didn’t she learn from coming in unannounced the other day?

“What?” I force and drop my skull towards my desk. If I look at her too long, I remember that, in a few days, I’ll crush her spirits and never see her again.

She walks over to me in her colorful, floral blouse and high-waist, denim jeans with a blinding smile on her face. “Mrs. Samiya Karlinsky,” she coos, referring to the hearts I unconsciously doodled around Samiya’s name on mine. I slam the journal close, prompting her to tease me more, “Aww, Dusty, that’s so cute. Did you guys have a good time last night?”

“No,” I rush, but quickly change, “well, yeah. We did, but Ryan ruined it.”

“How?” she grimaces and takes a curious seat on top of the old oak.

My chin falls to my neck. Within a second, I cast my eyes to the side. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, Talia’s here, so we were thinking about having family game night. Probably play a little chess, Scrabble, and maybe even some Monopoly. All of your favorites.” She drops a hand on my hunched shoulder and gives me a comforting smile. “Maybe that’ll help you feel better.”

“I don’t want to play.”

Her smile plummets. “What?!” she exclaims, her face a ball of confusion. “Dustin, you love game night.”

I squirm in my seat, but keep my eyes stuck to the ground. “Not anymore.”

“Dustin, what is getting into you?” Silence. Her worried sigh fills the room. I peak at the stress etched in her wrinkles. Then, a look of realization unfolds. “Is this because of the other night? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Oh, shit. After Samiya left my house that first day of tutoring, I had an overwhelming urge to beat off. To my horror, my mom caught me in the act. It stunned us both so much, neither of us have mentioned it since. Until now…

“Honey,” she continues, “what you were doing is completely normal for boys your age. I’m actually grateful that you were alone and not with some girl. Samiya’s a great, beautiful young lady, but I don’t want either of you to mess—”

“Mom, go,” I force. I can’t take it anymore, especially since she’s reminding me that Samiya and I could’ve done it last night. We could’ve actually become one, but Ryan had to be Ryan.

The short-haired lady exhales yet again. “Dusty…”

“Please,” I cry out, then regain my composure, “I’m begging you to just leave it alone.”

“Okay, honey,” she breathes. “At least come down for dinner, if only to please me.”

I hesitate but eventually nod. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she blows a sigh of relief, then rubs my back in a circular motion. “Come on, your father and sister are waiting.”

I stand to follow her short figure out of my messy room. For a second, I contemplate changing shirts, since I’m still wearing my prom button-down.

When we get to the dining table, my dad and sister are engaged in a deep talk about what sounds like a crock of bullshit.

“Look who I found!” Mom squeaks and takes her seat at the set table covered in plates of red-sauced spaghetti and meatballs.

My mother’s twin with long, dark hair A.K.A. my older sister, Talia, hops from her seat and throws her arms around my neck, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Hey, Dusty! Long time no see.”

I pull her arms off me and fake a smile. “Yeah, I know.” She’s been at school for a while, but that doesn’t mean I missed her.

“How’s it going?” she asks and I almost flash out. Those are the same words Ryan threw at me before he ruined my life.

“Great,” I choke out and finally put my butt in a chair.

My dad eyes me with concern, but doesn’t voice it as he says, “Dustin’s got himself a new girl.”

“A girl?” Talia’s thick lashes flutter. “Bout time, Dust-Bunny.”

I send her the evil eye—to which she only laughs—and mumble, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Mom giggles as she lays a napkin in her lap. “Dustin, would you please lead us in prayer?”

“I’d rather not,” I shoot.

“Dustin—” Dad begins in a scolding voice. I swear, my parents are only Jewish when they’re bored with their pathetic lives.

“I’ll do it.” Mom sighs, then drops her head. “Bow your heads. Ahem. Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who creates various kinds of sustenance.”

“Amen,” the rest of us reply and open our eyes to dig into our meals.

I stab my fork in my plate and slurp up a ball of warm noodles. After not eating for a whole night, I’m starved.

“Some mail came for you today,” Dad says, watching me as he chews. “From Stanford, actually.”

Okay, so? “I’m sorry, we couldn’t help ourselves,” Mom apologizes and reaches into her back pocket to pull out a creased envelope.

I squint my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We opened it,” my dad responds with an unstoppable grin. “Congratulations, bud. You got accepted.”

“No way!” Talia exclaims and nudges my hair with her knuckles. “That’s super awesome. Congrats, baby bro.”

My muscles throb. Regurgitated spaghetti rises in my throat. My teeth have to pierce my tongue to prevent me from belting out.

Mom pulls my head down to her bare lips and kisses my furrowed forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “The tuition’s a little high, but we can use the money you saved up from your Bar Mitzvah to help us out.”

Talia takes a small bite of her pasta and voices the obvious, “He doesn’t look very excited.”

The three of them stare at me like I’m a pimple ready to burst. If that’s what they’re thinking, then they’re right. “From now on, mind your own damn business.”

The legs of the chair screech loud against the wooden floor as I stand from my seat. My fork flies towards the plate but bounces off and breaks an empty glass nearby. I snatch the letter from my mom’s hands and rip it up as they watch in horror. Then, I turn to go back to my room.

“Dustin, get back here now,” my dad demands in a voice he hasn’t used in years.

“Let it go, Judah. It’s probably just hormones,” Mom reasons in the distance, “I’m sure deep down he’s excited.”

Of course, they aren’t coming to check on me and make sure everything’s okay. They only care about my wellbeing when it benefits them. I bet my mom only wanted me to feel better so they’d have an even number of players for game night. They don’t care about me. They don’t care that I despise everything around me and want nothing more than to leave this earth. I mean, how would they even know? No one talks to me.

I can’t believe they opened my letter. I applied to Stanford before I ever knew of our plans. It was my dream school, and seven months ago, I would’ve been elated over my acceptance letter. But I would’ve never opened it knowing my impending doom. Knowing I could have a bright future only makes ending my life soon that much harder.

“Ugh!” I grunt before slamming my door behind me. I’m not worried about anyone barging in, because I’m sure they don’t even care that I’m losing my mind.

I sit back at my desk and return to writing my misery in the worn-out journal.

More than anything, I wish Samiya was here. Her crown sits on my desk, a few rhinestones missing from its harsh crash to the pavement, reminding me of the few seconds I had to call her my queen. I just wish I could hug her and feel her heart pounding against mine. At least one more time. Holding her so close to me melts every harsh, hateful feeling that rules my spirit. Whenever I have her near me, I never want to let her go. I could stand the feminine, soft scent of her for the rest of my existence. I could stare at her perfectly crafted face for as long as she’d allow, and even when she stopped allowing, I’d sneak as many peeks as I could. I could feel her warm skin against mine every night and day until night becomes day and day becomes night.

God, I wish she wasn’t so angry at me. I hate to admit I have feelings, but, hey, I’m not a sociopath. I don’t think I can live without her here to encourage me. If the one person who cares about my happiness hates my guts, what purpose do I have? To even think about that makes it hard to breathe. I’m trying my hardest not to cut my life short right now. The thirteenth seems so far away, but if I can just get through eighty-eight more hours, then my wish will come true. I just have to conjure up some patience.

Sad thing is I’m not scared to die. The Torah says the dead will be resurrected. I don’t too much believe in God anymore, but if he’s real and the afterlife actually exists, maybe I’ll be resurrected and have a better life. That’s what I’m hoping for.

And death shall have no dominion. No control. My mom’s favorite poem by that Dylan Thomas-dork says something like that. She used to have it posted up in her office when she owned that Jewish funeral home. I never understood it before, but now it speaks volumes.

And it’s wrong. Death has all the dominion. It’s what rules us as humans. It stops up from doing dumb things like going over a hundred in a forty-speed zone or jumping out a plane with no parachute. It forces us to believe in these make-believe Gods out of fear of not knowing what happens afterwards. It keeps us from exacting out revenge on those who’ve hurt us in so many ways. But not me and Ryan. Death can’t control us. We control death. And on May thirteenth, we’re giving the grim reaper a day off. We decide who lives. And we decide who rots in hell.

Title: Gunpoint of View

Genre: Young Adult, Realistic Fiction

Age Range: 16 and up

Word Count: Around 91,000, but I’m currently waiting on edits to help tighten it up among other things.

Author name: R.S. Traylor

Why your project is a good fit? I believe my project is a good fit because it’s an intriguing look into the mind of a depressed teenager with suicidal and homicidal thoughts that have led him and his best friend to plan a school shooting. It is also unique in its multiple, point-of-view structure and intertwining subplots. It follows two other protagonists who are connected some way or another with the potential killer, but they each have their own flaws and lives. It tackles important subjects such as mental health, bullying, interracial relationships, cancer, the power of forgiveness, gray morality, and more. Additionally, unlike recent books with similar plots, it’s set in the late 1990’s as an attempt to capture a time when events such as mass shootings seemed rare and unthinkable. I believe the complexity of the story relates to numerous publications managed by Trident agents.

The hook: With two weeks left until Mission: No Going Back, Dustin must decide whether or not seeking revenge on the bullies who've tortured him and his best friend for years is worth the future of himself and the ones who matter most.

Synopsis (Not sure how detailed it should be): In a pre-Columbine world, Dustin and his best friend, Ryan, can’t wait to shoot up their school and become heroes to those scorned. Joshua is a part of the bullying, jock clique, but he’s always been sympathetic to the two thanks to his Catholic upbringing and playful personality. That is until a grim diagnosis and a few misfortunes change his rose-colored outlook on life, making him more like Dustin and Ryan than he’ll ever know. Samiya is the voice for the unheard and overlooked. In one last good deed, she vows to help Dustin find a reason to smile. She never imagined he’d end up being hers.

Target Audience: Mature adolescents and up; fans of contemporary and gritty/dark fiction; mental health and diverse fiction fans

Author Bio: I’m a twenty-two-year-old black female who, much like Samiya, seeks to make the world a better place by standing up for what I believe in. I was born in Monroe, Louisiana in the mid-90’s at the beginning of the Internet-age. As a young girl with plaits and barrettes, I loved to write and would often rather use copy paper from the printer to write and illustrate my own stories than wait on my grandparent’s dial-up Internet to load online games. Eventually, I discovered the wonders of Notepad and WordPad and took my talents there. As a teen, I wrote and scrapped numerous novellas that dealt with subjects such as runaway teens, the crack epidemic of the 20th century, teens with oppositional behavior, and teenage pregnancy. Unfortunately, I don’t have much of a platform. Yet, I have a good amount of Facebook and Instagram followers. I also have writer friends with blogs and such.

In 2016, I graduated from Louisiana State University with a Bachelor’s of Arts in sociology. In December of this year, I'm scheduled to graduate with my master’s in social work from the same school. Raising awareness for mental health and treatment is one of my passions. Although, my dream job is tackling it in fiction writing. Another passion of mine is music. I love music of all genres and decades, especially the 1970’s and 1990’s (I love Justin Timberlake, but I’m still Team Backstreet Boys). I also love to draw and come up with crafts and costumes for the holiday season. This is my first serious novel as an adult, so I’m not fully aware of my writing style. I’m a typical Cancer woman. I appear hard on the outside, but deep down, I’m an emotional marshmallow. At times, I can be blunt and sarcastic, but only when it’s deserved. Don’t worry. I promise I’m a genuinely nice person.

P.S. That wasn’t sarcasm.