She was created

from the depths, born

between time and tears

before she escaped

snares trapping perfection.

so my dreams run red

in a feeding frenzy,

consuming ghosts

like daydreams

and various insecurities.

nothing good

can come from this.

remorse is a juggernaut

and it really pisses me off

when my scoops come

up empty.

the popular fallacies of love

pool around my bones.

so I will sink

soft beneath the sand

and catch her

On the way up.

Trapping perfection

Is a waste of my time

As I crouch in this damned chair,

And realize

That nothing good can come from this.

That my various insecurities

Created from the depths

Of the feeding frenzy

That has run red

Like a juggernaut

In my bleeding soul

Has become beautiful to me.

All those popular fallacies

That urge everyone

To achieve something beyond themselves

Really pisses me off.

Embrace your damaged self

For this is where

True art thrives

Between time and tears.

"ma cherie. Bon chance, et au 'voir," rain pattered a sullen grey sheen to a parting caress, leaving the glossy haired actress to shiver solitary and despondent in the downpour.

"Perfection my sweet, sweet star! Absolute perfeccion!" Director Marquis exclaimed. That with a snap of her fingers the rain water was shut off, the scenery cleared, and three stage hands twiddering over her with a fresh, fluffy towel, stripping away the wet sweater of her costuming.

Gushing and fawning just the same.

She replied like she always did with a radiant smile and tired thanks as if she'd worked herself till the fingers ran red.

"Next shoot in twenty my moneymaker!" she screamed out.

"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for all the bon bons in the world mes amis."

"I love it!"

Cynthia didn't see her Mother nearby. Had she gone to meet with her PR representative or with the agents navigating this novelty foreign backdrop contract to razz up her image for "more provocative elegance."

At a stand near the buffet spread for the day was a stand with every actor's personal bags. Inside her own, aptly labelled with her legal name Pearl Marsh, her phone buzzed.

Now there are many, many popular fallacies that the public, morons, and even the outliers of the industry liked to believe were true.

First off, an actor's beauty.

Any studio worth their credit or in following Child Safety and Health Guidelines made sure that roles were prepped in the safest, least invasive means possible under the supervision of a doctor. Under the employ of not the studio, not the movie, but of a legitimate clinic or hospital.

Meaning that when you got several pre-teens together after the first round of thirteen hour days it was a battle royale, free for all FEEDING FRENZY!!!

The buffet table was war.

Where the weak didn't survive.

Hence Cynthia using the one skill afforded to her.

Number Two: the backstory.

Actors actually come from all kinds of walks of life.

"Are you a bully?" she asked, summoning a sparkle of fat tears to her eyes. While she may have traded glasses for contacts, she was still small, bookish, and with too many various insecurities left over from six years of being the butt of an unseen, unwritten joke within society's grand plan of girlhood.

Leaving her to scarf down the best of what Germany, Little Italy, and the cute bistro on 9th had to offer.

Phone in one hand and plate in the other she gave a cursory glance toward her texts.

Six from some back home.

Myth three: Actresses only had specially approved, specially designed celebrity acquaintances, where the "commoners" were scorned.

Nooo. The common people Cynthia herself was 'friends' with were the titular harpies of her own Mean Girls life experience created from the depths of shallow, pink, and 1 percenter girlhood.

Many, many schoolmates and concerned parties-- (particularly her well-versed in girl warfare sisters Veronica and Nora)-- said nothing good could come of this.

They were... probably right.

Why did she keep in touch?

Because it simply made things easier the few times she needed to go back to her small town.

There were plenty of people she loved there sure; her Father, her sisters, her nerd squad back home, the fanclub-- yeesh wasn't that embarrassing to say-- and Freida.

Her first kiss and lesbian awakening but enough on that.

The last text being from an Ip inside the juggernaut of a studio.

From Breydan Nox.

Working on the set of a Modern Magic flick.

Who for now was off for the next two hours and...

'Needed her rose pink pillow for this damned chair.'

Tossing the half-eaten meal Cynthia was off at brisk, imposing pace for the set on a wholly different road from her own.

Meanwhile they were doing the trailer for another one of her contracted films.

This one having a supernatural antagonist and secondary threat now on camera.

Surely in their white Priestess suit.

"Bon chance, mes amis."

"You-- you were the reason! All of it, for so many years."

With a click, that door was closed and now was a dark hallway.

Among the rooms here was her own dressing room.

A strike of panic lanced through her to see the door she'd triple checked was locked and chained... Open.

Spilling the soothing light of her moon lamp.

"Nothing good can come of this," warned the voice of a college aged intern.

"We don't know that for sure and come on, you're the one with a crush on the poor girl," Sadie Novak chided, being fifteen herself.

"Yuck! It's-- it's a celebrity thing," he insisted. "I just like like her shoots, the way she looks!"

"Look don't worry about it, just never hit on her and you--" she saw her point at him, "keep this job you sorely need."

"I know, believe me I know I'm lucky to have this job."

"Yeah. Don't get me wrong though these things stars have with their makeup and other products really pisses me off."

"I still think it's a big job and besides, I've been taking notes from who did it before."

"Could be more about someone touching them in the first place," Sadie pointed out, "I dunno."

What she would have given to stomp in there insisting that yes, it was about touching her expensive and vital materials for her work and damn was that temptation deafening, but all the same she did what she could to push that aside for now.

As long as she was off-set, had a list ready anyway, Cynthia wouldn't be impeded or misstep when it comes to her prep.

Simply breathe in and out.

Besides, Brendan was putting a lot more on the line than her having been involved in a media frenzy last year for his elder sibling's possession charges.

The fire alarm went off at the end of the stairwell. Shit.

Nothing doing now anyway she supposed.

Between time and tears, in three years, she had foolishly forsaken Pearl Marsh. Now all left was an icon.

Cynthia Clairmoore.

Hardly a person and hardly definable if she didn't have a young lady on her shoulder. Had this been her fault? Defensive and cowardly as she'd first started, genuine confidence had come from a front.

Only, the confidence was real. But when she grew angry, tried to peel away and demand her progression, the genuine, hard fought fruits of her journey back-- she'd only found what was now pink petals bursting with nothing to hold it all firm anymore.

Mosquitos. Would you miss 'em?

And malaria, yellow fever, chikungunya, dengue, West Nile, yellow fever? Genetically modifying mosquitos to render them unable to reproduce? Sounds like a good idea.

They're vampires, after all, created from the depths of depraved evolutionary engineering, each a juggernaut of my evening's destruction as I sit in this damned chair, seeing my blood run red, each dire drop miscible between time and tears.

But it really pisses me off.

You can't use genomes in efforts toward trapping perfection. Just one of many popular fallacies. Modify them to discourage their feeding frenzy? You'd sooner modify yourself with a can of DEET.

As a species, we have various insecurities that spill over into our best-laid plans of men. Read your history. Stepping into the newly uncharted genomic strategies is just the latest of many clever--but ultimately tragic--bad ideas. Genetic modification toward extinction?

Nothing good can come from this!

The Jews--would you miss 'em?

Homosexuals--would you miss 'em?

The ethnically disapproved--would you miss 'em?

Gypsies--would you miss 'em?

Catholics, Protestants, Muslims--would you miss 'em?

Your neighbors--would you miss 'em?

Addicts--would you miss 'em?

Ugly people--would you miss 'em?

Teachers--would you miss 'em?

Kardashians--would you miss 'em?

The '57 Chevy haunted me. It showed up in my dreams. It was my first conscious thought I'd have in the morning after waking up. It would be a doodle in my math notebook. It wasn't a thought anymore but a plague to my mind. Nothing special about it could be seen with the eyes alone. Yet there was some mysterious quality that became a feeding frenzy in my mind.

I had let my thoughts wander in and out about the car as I copied the equations on the board. The routine of my Algebra 2 class was not interrupted by these thoughts. Honors courses regularly aren’t. You keep up along with the others, or you miss everything important. Before I could begin to solve one, I felt myself skid forward, smudging my pen ink on the paper with my hand. Repositioning my chair, I kept writing.

About halfway through, I skidded forward again. Shaking my head, I shifted the chair back. Nothing good can come of this, I thought, but said nothing. It could have been an accident, or I did it on my own. I let my mind indulge in the math problems again.

I barely got my answer on the paper when I felt myself skidding forward again. My ribs were thrown into the desk. The pain made my mind run red.

"Hey!" Spinning around, I felt my anger flow into hatred.

"What?" Finn Sable looked at me with disregard.

"What? What!? You need to stop kicking me! That's 'what'," I snapped. Mentally, I kicked myself. Of course, it would have been him. His habit of not sitting in chairs correctly to kick people in front of him and blaming it on him being tall was only about as much of a juggernaut as his insufferable ego. An attitude created from the depths of unbearable places where the only people unbothered by it were his inner circle of friends. My blood boiled to the temperature of the equator.

"Just sit in the chair normally and stop kicking me. It's really annoying," I continued through clenched teeth and my remaining composure. Turning around, I finished my work, waiting for the minute I could leave this damned chair. Sharp breaths entered and exited my mouth as I tried to keep myself from making a scene. He wouldn't listen anyway. It really pisses me off when people do that— not stopping something that clearly bothers people and making excuses for it, I mean. "I'm tall," "It's not a big deal," "You're being dramatic." Only popular fallacies to avoid owning up to your mistakes. Between time and tears, I've learned that they can't change. They won't change. All they want is their own satisfaction and will use you to get it. Anger, hurt, various insecurities, all to feel superior over another person. They'd use everything to make you start trapping perfection to every aspect of your life. Then, they'd just leave you in the dust, festering in your grief.

A sharp dinging entered my ears. The bell! My savior! I'm free at last! Scooping my things together I made my way out of class. Relief swept away my anger as I lightly sprinted down the stairs to gym class.

I had a lot to tell the others.

continued from DanPhantom123 entry to Challenge:

https://www.theprose.com/post/747938/la-vie-en-rose

"Pearl! Pearl Marsh? Pearl Marsh!!....."

The waving of arms and clanging of bracelets interrupts an otherwise brilliantly lit plasticated 2D set. Molded for TV to look desirably enterable like its having Space nonrepresentational. Take Abstract art and stir it with Baroque, totally Mod Pod.

"Is there a problem?" Marquis does not have Time for retakes or does she? She places languid arm, now tentacle extension, across our Actress's shoulder and spins her, facing.

Cynthia flashes her pearls distraught and twiddles with trinkets. "No-- No. Of course, there is not--"

Nox persists having not quelled his hots and wanting to push through on mission attainable. Marching in red pants:

"Telephone for a Pearl Marsh!!"

Director Marquis makes fatal flaux pas asking the crucial: "WHO is IT?!"

"Frieda for Pearl Marsh, ma'am." Obsequiousness knows no bounds.

"GET OUT--"

Our Heroine squeals like wheels on grease wouldn't do and makes beeline for dressing room removing garments of white and sequin that give the whole rainbow envy.

"Merd jamais si fou! Cut!" is the order and all cameras are cut! and scalding beverages are served. Over iced in very thin cups that sweat profusely adding to confusion of whose is whose, and where to put what leaky obstacle.

Door to trailer has been hermetically sealed. Icon Cynthia conferences with Pearl and Frieda. Red lips running into cold creme, between time and tears, wiping down to bare skin in this damned chair.

"Hullo? hallo?!" from the depths.

"Nothing good can come of this."

...Brendan and Sadie with ears pressed to the aluminum trailer must only shrug. It's time to walk away before getting caught up in sideline gossip column.

A contract is breached, signed and dated.

The confidence was Real. She emerged; bowl of saran wrapped fruit in outstretched arms. 

Sadie Novak received these with grateful tears and relief that nothing had rotted after all. Miss America had nothing to show in comparison neither in Talent nor Interview for many years after.

Ta da was waved to all the yessh men and women. The feeding was over. She could finally pee without being watched off. Giant sobs of juggernaut. Tying various bonds and insecurities to popular fallacies trapping perfection, was a parcel let loose.

A Pearl Marsh.

Marquis with dramatic Fanale not to be outdone, shouts!

"BON CHANCE, MES AMIS!"

Juggernaut of death

created from the depths

One clean cut

makes the world run red

This damned chair stands

between time and tears

My toes wobble and shake,

threatening to give way

Nothing good can come of this

I know this to be true

But the suffocating task

of trapping perfection

Drowns me in the feeding frenzy

of what’s needed to survive

That life is life worth fighting for,

that various insecurities shine bright

Free me from such foolish games,

such popular fallacies

On this hand of yours,

I’ll dance no more

It really pisses me off

Tell me what is left for me,

what’s here to pull me back

There is nothing worse than this damned chair. The one stuck behind the counter, with a semi auto scan to run red over barcodes, between time and tears, checking in and out, the popular fallacies and various insecurities, of the Average Library-User.

But for the grace of mom, it could have been me.

It used to be that I was out in the Stacks, where I was myself thinking of trapping perfection, as created from the depths... of souls who were worried to death, that nothing good can come of this... and who had sat in this damned chair, between time and tears, weighing the juggernaut of Humanity.

It really pisses me off. I was shelving the books, in Dewey Decimal Order, all the various insecurities of Nonfiction and Bios, and the popular fallacies of Fantasy, Poetry, and Fiction, and you guessed it, that other-juggernaut, Philosophy, as well. All created from the depths, of this damned chair, between time and tears; the same said seat, as it were of feeding frenzy. The book worm whose eyes must endlessly run red.

Between time and tears, it is not reading we are talking about here!! It's this damned chair of rigidity, where we, grabbed by the jugular as collective society, have sat, letting loose all the popular fallacies, that have led to our various insecurities... And it really pisses me off, as Juggernaut, with notes that only run red... in trapping...

As head Librarian, all data shows the patronage has lost its feeding frenzy. In truth, the scan "runs red" all by itself, in automatic. Yet, I am stuck in this damned chair, swiveling like one condemned, to popular fallacies and my own various insecurities, because now, myself, I ask What have I created from the depths, between Time and Tears, trapping perfection, from my own pen? So, I sit, greeting the Patronage, that visits, whatever it is... from this damned chair.

Nothing good can come of this, this feeding frenzy, inside the human head.

07.15.2023

Just Breath inspiration challenge III @BJLeCrae

"It has been six months and King Louis still sits on his damned chair of potentates." Nepolean replies "To kill the juggernaut one must first break his legs." The general becomes flummoxed and asks "But sir our land runs red, fraught with the ruddy blood of the people of our insurrection and we stand twidling our thumbs while our people are feeding into the popular fallicies. I think nothing good can come out of this." Nepolean replies "The blood of our people is also on the flag we fight for, and the flag we fight for is between time and tears. They will feed into their own various insecurities when they see the willingness of our people, we break their moral; we will break the juggernaut's legs. They will see the valour and willingness created from the depths of France." As nepolean said that a drunk man came inside the bar where both the genereal and nepolean were chatting in, and said to the bartender "Mes amis! this tyrannical king Louis really pisses me off, he is such a butthead." Then Nepolean says to his general while looking at the drunk man "Even after going through a feeding frenzy of mead and meat he still remembers his country. He is not a noble man but is a man of a high spirit and they are exactly what we need." After perciving what nepolean was trying to say the general says to the man "Go show the king this spirit, bon chance!