Can I Hold Her?
"Can I hold her?" The new father asked. He was so hesitant around the newborn. But this was his daughter. She was so small he was afraid he would break her. But he deaspretly wanted to hold her. A nurse gently deposited the child in his arms. His daughter curled up in his arms, asleep. He smiled, tears in his eyes.
3 years later his little girl was running around the house. The man had just gotten off of work. She jumped up into his arms, and the man laughed, pulling her close.
"Daddy, you can let go of me." The man smiled. "I'm going to hug you, and love you, and squeeze you, and call you Goerge. Hi Goerge" The girl laughed.
Jumping off the bus, into her father's arms the 5-year old smiled. Together they said. "I'm going to hug you, and love you, and squeeze you, and call you Goerge. HI GOERGE!"
The nurse shook her head sadly. The father looked helplessly at the young teen that was his daughter. The body, once so full of life, now lay dead on the cot. He looked at the nurse.
"Can I hold her?"
Heat lightning flashed in streaks of promise lighting up the dark sky. I was getting antsy and, yet, a frenzy of anticipation warmed my body and awakened my urgent longing.
Because I hadn’t killed anyone since last Friday, my overwhelming need for power and dominance was building up in a crescendo. I climbed into my car; well actually it was my former girlfriend’s car, but she was already dead. To make a long story short, I called her Friday. I always labeled my victims by the day of the week that they met their end. The moon hid behind dark clouds as I peered through the dead of night to find my next victim. I was fired up and quite titillated when I saw a young woman at the side of the road, looking in frustration at her flat tire on her vehicle.
Her leather mini skirt was hiked up to spotlight her rounded ass as she bent over the tire. But it really didn’t matter what she looked like to me because I knew that control was what turned me on and the rest didn’t concern me all that much. I was superior and would show her how to tremble and fear me until her last drop of scarlet blood leaked out onto the ground. I shivered in expectation as I pulled to a stop behind her and got out of my car. “Do you need help?” I asked her in my best reassuring voice, as I tried to hide my darkness.
With a helpless smile on her face, she simpered, “I can’t get the lug nuts to loosen. Would you mind trying?”
I thought I saw something flash behind her eyes but I thought it probably was just relief. She handed me a flashlight and I got down on my haunches to take a look. I turned back to reassure her that I would be able to take care of her tire and almost smirked because I could see right up her skirt to her dark reward because she wasn’t wearing any panties. I felt a surge of excitement because I knew I had her where I wanted her.
When I turned back to her she said in a deceptively sweet voice, “Here’s a lug wrench that you can use.” Was it my imagination or did I see a sly look on her face? Maybe she wanted something from me but it wouldn’t be as much challenge if she was looking forward to a sexual encounter.
That was the last thought I ever had as she smashed the wrench down on my skull so forcefully that pieces of bone and brain matter sprayed in a pink misted arc.
I felt like I was somewhere in space, looking down at the gory scene. I imagined I saw a
triumphant smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth as she said, “He is Monday!”
Heat lightning flashed in streaks of promise lighting up the dark sky.
Be safe, love
“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”
It was small things. Small, precious gestures.
Asking her about her day, her friends; taking an interest in her life.
Tight hugs, an arm around her waist– warm and strong.
“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”
She wasn’t very close with her friends after all, and they were only using her, like he said.
It was okay. And now she had more time to spend with him.
He loved her most.
He protected her, kept a check on her.
His hugs were a little tighter, but it was okay.
He loved her.
“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.′
Even from herself– her mistakes, her failures.
The marks on her body didn’t mean anything, they were just a reminder to better herself.
For her own good.
(“I hate doing this to you, love.”)
For her own good.
(“I love you”)
He loved her.
And it wasn’t something a little makeup couldn’t hide.
Whispers echoed in the room. The room– completely bare– for the solitary figure huddled up in a corner.
Too wide, frantic eyes looked around wildly.
A desperate chant spilled forth from chapped lips–
He keeps me safe. I’m happ-”
she was gone
high above her reality
happier than she would ever be
she was gone, no worries, no cares,
just happy and free.
society couldn't touch her
that's just the way she was
made of bulletproof glass.
people threw sticks and stones
trying to break her down to her bones
but everything just bounced right off
that's what bulletproof glass is for, right?
little did they know,
she was cracking
society had put a bullet in her glass,
pounding her over and over with
an assault rifle
until she shattered.
and when she broke
she realized that
isn't so bulletproof
then she realized that
she was never made of glass
because instead of shattering
but only for a brief moment.
then the blood stopped
she was gone.
Don’t fall for a writer
Stay away; Far, far away. You really should listen to me. No, I haven't recently been dumped by a writer*snort/smirk*. You'll find that a lot aren't generally able to express themselves frankly by speaking.. Fights are the worst! They might take part or even instigate them but are seldom able to get their point across--coherently, that is. Luckily, roaring needs no translation, or not much. This incoherency tends to escalate in heated moments. The reason for it is that they have a million different voices battling to be heard. You'll find that writing is the only means to convey whatever they're thinking and feeling.. mostly coherently, hopefully. Then there's the ever-looming silence that somehow manages to scorch; not like fire. Do you know how frigid cold has to be to burn? It diminishes any fear of fire. You'll find that during these times they are often impossibly distant, stubbornly refusing to let you in their lonesome worlds.. Even if that's what they want, more than anything else. Did I mention the contradiction? It comes with the package; or maybe it is the package. If you search between their writing, you'll find exposed the depths of their heart.. Or you might find riddles impossible to solve. Ones they're not even sure they themselves fully understand but desperately yearn for you to figure out. The one who stares into a writer's eyes will find a soul engulfed in uninhibited intensity.. When writers write(or readers read; as I don't think there's a writer who's not a reader, the words are synonymous to me), it is with complete and utter reverence and devotion..it becomes their world, their reason for being. They'll continue reading and writing even if it kills them or rather, until.
That should give you an idea of how they love. You'll find that they don't care for casualty. They have to give their all in order to feel and can only give themselves over by feeling every emotion. In essence, writing is feeling; in order to write, writers need to feel; feeling causes them to write. They want when you're with them, to leave every inch of your heart and mind exposed. You are their world. Like luscious words--blissful unread ones and glorious old favourites! They need details, every dirty little detail and still more, always more. No matter how tremendously hurtful words sometimes are to write, writer's can never give up on it without killing a part of themselves in the process. It is their world. It is essential to their existence. Writers are willing to be utterly destroyed by their worlds before they let go. And even then, they might not. Reading forces you to look for the secrets hidden between the words and writing forces you to leave secrets between the words.
So they'll see more than they're supposed to, be attuned to your every mood, know your every heartbeat from when you're happy to feeling blue and feel it all with you, too..
You'll be equally awed and astounded by their endless mysteries and elusive realms you'll find they can't help but hide at first or forever.. They'll inscribe you between every word they read, every word they speak, every word they hear. For long after you've gone. So they'll imprint their words deep within your soul, before any thought of endings, while you're still willing to be marked, even eager. If it has to end, you'll stay scarred by them for life. As they know they inevitably will be by you. You'll find them in every word you read, every word you speak, every word you hear. For long after they're gone. And remember when I said to stay away, far, far away..? That's just poetic melodrama. In writer's speak, that means: go ahead, obliterate me; I dare you. I beg you..
The leaves had turned red.
You could tell fall was in the air as we walked home from school. Shane had just finished telling me about his disastrous History project, which had too much glitter and not enough Gilded Age.
"Crystal I'm telling you, maybe the class would be more fun if Mr. Costal had a little more sparkle, and a lot less okayigetitpeopledied, you know?"
Shane had spent two weeks on that project. He though going big before Christmas break would be fun. He was always like that though, cared too much about making sure his assignments shined, and making sure everyone around him knew it too.
As the leaves crunched beneath our feet I couldn't help but to think about the events to follow. Another year of Christmas trees, bad eggnog, and fake smiles at my grandma's gifts. You would think at 16 she would stop getting me dolls, but after one too many years of 'Oh I love it!', I'm pretty sure she's dead set on a collection. But its not so bad, she did take me in when my parents left so I owe it to her to keep fake smiling. While thinking about which creepy doll I'll get this year, Shane breaks my concentration.
"Hey dummy, we should take the shortcut today. I found this cool tree yesterday and I want you to see it." Shane said, turning towards the woods.
I start to say that its not really a short cut, just a scenic route when it's obvious he's not listening. So I just follow.
As we walk through the wood's I realized he's taking us the wrong direction, and before I know it, he's saying we're lost.
" You know," I say " If you weren't dead set on this tree, we would have been home 30 minutes ago. Maybe if we turn around we'll find the road again."
Shane stopped and turned quickly. He had a weird look on his face, I didn't like it.
"No I think the tree is a little further."
"Shane I don't think this is a good idea, we should just turn around."
"Don't be a baby Crystal," Shane started," It's right here."
I looked at the tree, and didn't understand. It was a large oak, undeniably pretty, but it looked like every other tree around us.
"Shane it's pretty okay, can we go home now?" I stated, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Shane circled the tree. That expression was still there, but deeper; eyebrows furrowed, and a small smirk. His eyes were darting around like he was looking for someone or something.
At this point I've had enough.
"Shane I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow."
I turned around. I didn't even see him coming. Searing pain radiated from the back of my head as I hit the ground. And then he was on top of me. I don't really know if I screamed, the ringing in my ears blocked out everything. Face down on the ground, I couldn't see him, but I could feel him. He grabbed my arm and hit me again.
This time I screamed.
"Shut up!" he screamed back.
My mouth had a bitter taste of dirt and blood, and my vision started to blur. I was confused. Why would he do this? Is this really where I end? Those thoughts came to a stop with the last blow to my head.
I could feel my body go limp. I knew I stopped moving when he got off me and walked back to the tree. And then it went cold. It started at my feet and fingertips. As the cold traveled to the rest of my body, all I could do was stare. The world had gone silent, but the trees still swayed. The sky was still blue and the bugs were still crawling, just now they were crawling on me. Only one thing had changed as I drifted.
The leaves had turned red.
You can sway side by side with me in the tree.
I’ll make room.
This rope swing has us pumping our legs and reaching for the sky.
We speak of the Legend that the moss grows on the north side of the trees.
While we laugh as the grass tickles our knees.
Our Mama’s tell us the stories of the rabbit and the moon, and the cow that hopped the planets while straddling a spoon. And stories of a woman who lept up mountains while whistling up a tune.
Our Papa’s tell us stories of the old hunched-up woman who lived inside a shoe,
and the girl that sang by day and by night she ate tear soup and our favorite story of the man who wanted to be free so he drank too much and he got the hanged noose.
I dream of going to the tree. Where the man was able to be free.
I wonder if you would come with me?
To the place where we could run, and swing so we’d both be free.
We made a plan.
To meet at midnight.
In the hanging tree.
I hope you don’t forget to come to the tree.
Make sure you wear a necklace of rope.
So you can stay side by side with me.
Oh, don’t you cry.
It would be horrible to drown in tears
When the wind can make us dance
You can sway side by side with me in the tree.
Life Is Too Fast
What is life I ask you,
A wind in the trees,
A rushing river,
A incoming storm with howling noises?
Is it a coffee with a heart, left to cool on a table,
Is it a surfboard laying on a beach, waiting to soar,
Is it a home cooked meal with family all around?
How often are you asked,
What is life to you?
“What’s that up in the street ahead?” I shouted worriedly.
“Don’t know...let’s get closer.” Our car got closer. It was a sleepingbag, squirming like Houdini in a straightjacket.
“Pull over.” I said.
“O.K.” We slowed and stopped. My husband got out of the car and called out. “Are you O.K.?” he asked whoever was in the bag.
“Get me out, please!” A hoarse man’s voice blurted.
He crouched to unzip the man’s sleepingbag, and a hand reached out for traction. He pulled the poor guy out--left arm, then head, then left leg, then right leg. When his right arm emerged, it came with a machete, which swooped across my husbands neck and lopped off his head.
I panicked and floored the car, stretching my foot across to the driver’s side.
Another motorist approached.
“What’s that up in the street, a head?!” the woman in this car shouted.
”wake up“ the father says as he wakes his daughter up for school, “come on baby let’s go” give me a few hours she said. I’m gonna pull you out of that bed if you don’t come, “OKAY whatever” she said , as his making breakfast she comes down. “you are ready” he says with a smile on his face , “yes “she says walking out the door “ I don’t need breakfast today” , “okay” he says his smile slowly turning into a frown. As she’s waking to school she’s stopped by a robber , a lady heard gunshots in the distance she calls The cops as fast as she can , she comes running to the scene and sees a girl laying on the floor and She says “Oh God she’s dying“ as she hears the police in the background, he rushes into the hospital into his daughter’s room and as his hearing a beeeeeping noise he says NO PLEASE “wake up”