Monday, February 17, 2014

I Walk Among You


For Trifecta: to use funk (as in slump), as stated exactly, no variation, in a response between 33-333 words.  And, for 3WW: use the following words in your piece - feral, insatiable, shred.

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I walk among you and yet you fail to see. For I look like you you see; I talk, smell, and smile like you. And because of this, you cannot see. Your kind, blindly trusting smiles that talk too much. You espouse evil exists but because I look like you, you fail to see. And so you trust.

But I’m not one of you. Underneath your wretched skin that suffocates, my feral self begs to be released. For this skin of yours does not suit me well and constricts my energy to do you harm.  My grin, amiable in your eyes, is the only weapon I need to blur your intuition and intelligence. You delight in my charming smile and suffer an alarming funk that boggles the mind. That is where your flaw - your end - resides, ever trusting the external, rarely questioning the internal; your species, so fatuously trusting.

Many times I’ve wanted to unleash myself unto you and shred you to pieces. But we are not insatiable rogues whose hunger cannot be restrained. We are skillful and patient, patiently waiting for the day when we, living under the guises of your useless skins, will finally be free to reveal ourselves and take over your world. Why? Because we can. Because we are superior. Because as owners of this planet for millennia your only exponential growth has been ignorance. 

We’ve adopted your rudimentary ways emulating your useless brains fertile with beliefs ungrounded. This is when I find cause, pleasure, to use your smile, because your ignorance simply baffles.

But soon you will see faces you once thought friendly peel off skins of trust and you will stand there, useless like it’s your wont, asking yourself how this could be.  Because your trust, your flawless stupidity, has made it so. Our mission here will soon end and the annihilation of your race will begin.  Because we are the superior race, a mighty army at arms ready for your Armageddon. We are simply, your God. 

Friday, February 14, 2014

Zuhnahmi

For Master Class, use the following sentence, in full, as your 5th sentence in your story: "There was an empty lot next door, with short cement steps leading up to nothing but air, and a For Sale sign swinging in the barren and sand swept yard."

I was on  my way to the beach house, meeting with friends one last time before life once again took center stage and the responsibilities and expectations of adulthood returned. Summer season had ended, the lifeguards were gone, the beaches closed and empty, safe for the few that coveted the last rays of warm sunshine waiting for the small bumps on their skins to tell them differently.  Each summer, I and a group of friends rented a bungalow by the beach, our weekend getaway, mini-vacations, our own form of much-needed infused energy given via Sun, salt water and plenty of spirits.  This year we'd rented a quaint, little clapboard house dressed in the colors of white and beige, both inside and out.  There was an empty lot next door, with short cement steps leading up to nothing but air, and a For Sale sign swinging in the barren and sand swept yard.  Many conversations were had late at night about this lot and how we were all going to chip in and buy it to build our own little beach house in the future. But, as many dreams go, ours was piped in the form of inebriated wishes that come morning was forgotten.

I walked the short, sandy pathway to the house barefooted, letting the warm sand cushion my steps and welcome themselves between my toes.  The warm ocean air flickered grains of sand on my face and suddenly I wished for one more month.  It had gone by too quickly.

I entered the house to screeches of laughter and the smell of homemade sauce and fresh baked ciabatta bread. My mouth salivated in pleasurable anticipation and I quickly set my bag down and took a hot ciabatta, broke a piece and dipped it into the sauce.  Hot with a kick of spicy, just the way I liked it.  Whomever said a good home cooked meal was not equivalent to a good orgasm never experienced the gratification of good cuisine.  It lit all of the same pleasurable centers in the brain except with food, the feeling was felt over and over.

I suddenly remembered I'd forgotten the bottles of wine in the car.  As I reached the front door the hairs on the back of my neck raised in alarm.  The air felt unpleasantly different - as if its oxygen had suddenly been vaccumed.  I instinctively looked to my left towards the beach and caught sight of a mammoth wave heading in our direction.  Air quickly departed my lungs and my heart began beating to an abnormal arrhythmic rhythm.  I quickly ran into the house to alert the others knowing full well that to outrun a tsunami was illogical but I suppose survival instinct sometimes overrides the logical.

Making my way back to the front of the house, I found it had arrived.  Looming high above us, on this beautiful, sunshiny day where the Sun was brilliant and the day had been so perfect, so gorgeously perfect, this ominous giant wave, this giant clear blue monolith 30 to 50 stories high, teetered on the brink of our destruction. Sky and Sun were gone, no longer visible, just a monster of a wave, swaying leisurely, teasing us with its power to destroy us. It did not immediately crash down; instead, it momentarily waited, swaying to and fro, taunting.  It was unfriendly, hostile, menacing, lethal.  I turned to seek shelter back in the house but found my legs frozen in place, no longer capable of motion.  Trying to find my voice within constricted lungs, I found it had deserted me as well. Fear had stripped my vocal chords of vibration.  Resigned, knowing my time here had come to an end, I closed my eyes and waited for the thunderous crash that signaled my end.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Deception







He didn't remember what had sparked it. One minute he was quietly sipping his afternoon Earl Grey while reading the paper and, the next, he was in an old graveyard that had seen better days, surrounded by unkempt tombstones.  A burial ground of entombed secrets never revealed.

He walked over to her plot uneasy at the easy remembrance of the way.  Ella.  He stared at her final resting place wondering why certain things just couldn't stay buried.  After awhile, he crouched down to clear the dirt and grass clippings off the solemn inscription, an epigraph that had always been laughable to the only one who knew her best.  Ella, duplicitous Ella, always feigning a loving, kind, and whimsy spirit when in actuality she was evil incarnate, seducing the dolts in her circle, including himself. Except unlike the others, she had taken a liking to his fawning ways and used him with uncontrolled pleasure as her lab rat of choice.

Looking at her date of birth, he now knew the reason for the unexpected visit.  Even in death she still exerted control.  He sadly smiled at how thirty years had passed and still her tentacles of persuasion gripped him beyond the grave.  She had lured him here to celebrate her birthday; even in death, she demanded it of him. Never allowed a voice, an original thought, he had given up everything that was dear to him just to please her.  In retrospect, he now viewed it as a form of self-punishment he had sentenced himself to for having not properly paid penance to the damage done to loved ones before he met her.  He had escaped his former life in an effort to rid himself of the reminders of his failures and had arrived at Bruges in hopes of starting anew.

And that's where he met her.  And Eric.  Eric, a passionate violinist and kindred spirit with whom he often played into the wee hours of the morning. His transcendental ability to execute rapid and difficult sequences of notes with such facility was a skill he had trained his entire life to attain to no avail; he quickly became his ardent pupil in the hopes that one day he just might achieve.  Loyal and kind Eric with whom he created a natural, effortless friendship, something special to be cherished.  He liked him, came to love him actually, like the brother he had never had.  Oblivious, or perhaps not wanting to acknowledge the sexual undercurrent of Eric's attention, it took Ella, angst-ridden and beautiful, ephemeral Ella, the love of his affection, to point out what had seemed strikingly obvious to everyone but himself. And because she was forever battling a host of demons that frolicked with her emotions at will, she proposed a ghastly request of him to prove her point and, as she reminded him, something he needed to execute if their love was to ever have a future.  It was not her habit to compete for someone's affection.

Blinded by his love for Ella and in an effort to prove her wrong, he led Eric on.  He feigned an unfelt affection towards dear, loyal, sweet Eric and, as Ella predicted, Eric took the bait.  Surprised by the sudden declaration of love and lust from someone whom he would never couple with, - someone he loved as a brother - he spewed vitriol and injured the one and only person who never did him harm.  Eric, realizing the cruel deception that had been played on him, stared at him in disbelief with eyes brimming with sadness.  When he quietly said that he never thought him of such depths of deceit and cruelty, he made him feel dirty and ashamed.  He wished him well and hoped that one day he would find someone whom he could love the way he always loved him.  Later that night, Eric took his life.  It was then, when he learned the fate of his beloved friend, that the love he had always had for Ella turned to hate.  He could no longer look at her or be a part of her world, for her eyes mirrored his unforgiving crime, as the willing tool of her manipulations, he now only wished to die as well.

And so, he gave up his violin, denying himself the very thing that brought him and Eric complete joy. Eric was gone and he had been the catalyst of that cause. Never forgiving himself for what he had done, he sentenced himself to a solitary life, away from society, living the rest of his days remembering the cavalier way he had used and injured another; an innocent pawn in the malicious machinations of a heart blinded by untruths.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Shh~



For Trifecta Writing Challenge: to create a 33 word post about a love gone wrong without using the following words: love, sad, tears, wept, heart and pain.


entwined in the heat of passion,
at the cusp of where physical devotion is met,
he whispers words best left unsaid -

their trysts,
changed, and forever now forfeited 
by three little damaging words 

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Indentured


For Master Class , a new prompt site I've just found.  This is my first post for the site.  The prompt is: "He was the only one left to fulfill that contract and try to justify the labor and the harshness and the mistakes of his parents’ lives, and that responsibility was so clearly his, was so great an obligation, that it made unimportant and unreal the sight of the motley collection of pall-bearers staggering under the weight of his father’s body, and the back door of the hearse closing quietly upon the casket and the flowers,which can be used in whole, or in part, or merely as an inspiration.  I chose to use as much of it as possible within the story.






And, for Magpie Tales

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He’d never been a fan. Actually, saying he wasn’t a fan was offensive.  His father’s trade was inhumane and there were laws against it, but he got away with it because, as he learned early in life, money could buy anyone, for the right price.  And so, his father had eyes everywhere whose job was to keep his business safe and unknown; and, he had foot soldiers that did the dirty work so he never had to be bothered with the abominable details.  

He grew up watching young girls come into his home - girls who had just celebrated their 12th birthday - to train to become lifelong slaves and concubines to ones who would be willing to pay the price.  Yeah, slavery wasn’t abolished in 1865, it just went underground and today the faces were of different color and ethnicity.  Yeah, involuntary servitude was alive and well in his quiet little town in the middle of Nowhere, U.S.A., where none were the wiser.  His father was a smart man and knew his type of business required an Americana fa├žade, a moral cover that would be impossible to attain in a metropolis where any form of activity, regardless of how well you kept it undercover, would be found by the nosey and ambitious that littered the streets like feral animals in search of survival. 

Yes, this had been his life and, in a sense, he had been a slave as well.  He was forced to keep quiet and never speak against the organization because, blood or not, he too might meet a fatal end. Not by his father’s hands, of course, but by one of his henchmen.  In his house, money was the God he prayed to and obeyed. 

But then Alena happened.  She had come into the family at the age of 11 and had been trained to be his father's house maid and  concubine.  He had fallen in love with the waif-like Alena with the soulful blue eyes; Alena, who would frolic and play with him when his father was not around; Alena, the one that he comforted to appease the tragedy of what was her life on those brief moments  when they were alone; Alena, the one who would tickle the ivories of the piano with her bare feet and giggle with wild abandon.  

He had approached his father and said he would pay for her freedom but, unfortunately, his money held no equity in his plea.  His father merely laughed at him and called him a dunce, “why pay for something you can have for free? Haven’t you learned anything I’ve taught you?

So angry at himself for having failed her, having begged him, that afterwards he drove to the nearest bar to imbibe and quell the demons that held the face of the one that sired him.  He hated him, his lifestyle, his immorality and lack of compassion, and on the fourth scotch he vowed to get Alena’s release one way or another.  Running away was not an option; they would eventually be found.  His father was powerful and did not take to traitors lightly.  No, he wasn’t running away.  That wasn’t his style anyway.  He wanted a more permanent solution, one that would free not only Alena, but all the other slaves that his father and his ilk owned. 

The following day, sober and still filled with the blinding rage of taking his father down, he promised himself he would go the police station and commit his father's crime.  For full cooperation he would ask for his freedom in return; he did not want to be  charged as an accessory, even though he was never a participant.  But there was no proof that he was; or, wasn't.  He knew they would never believe his innocence and so needed to go to them with concrete proof of his father's crimes as collateral.  He knew his father's organization to be so expansive and lucrative that his request would be easily met. He was not the dunce his father believed him to be; he knew the names of all the eyes and foot soldiers within the organization and the families that owned slaves.  His father kept meticulous records inside his safe in the bedroom.  And as of tomorrow he would finally free Alena from a life of indentured servitude and they could be free to move elsewhere and marry.  But today, he would have to find a way to get inside the safe and steal the records.  

But, as luck would have it, his father would get away with the crime.  He'd never see the inside of a jail.  That night, in the middle of dinner, as he was laughing at him for asking for Alena's freedom, he began to choke on a piece of sirloin.  His son, filled with the anger of injustice and inhumanity of his father’s crimes, watched calmly as his father died violently, never bothering to stand up and aid in his survival. When his father finally expired, he arose and made the requisite phone calls to the ambulance and police. He went to his father’s safe and retrieved the books.  The slaves would be now be freed.  And as the only one left to fulfill the contracts and justify the labor and harshness and mistakes his father made, the responsibility was now so clearly his, was so great an obligation, that he vowed to never rest into all those who committed the crimes would be put behind bars and all the slaves be freed and recompensed.  

And today, seeing the sight of the motley collection of pall-bearers staggering under the weight of his father’s body, and watching the back door of the hearse closing quietly upon the casket and the flowers, he smiled.  At last, he and Alena were free.  One evil spirit less in the world. One who would be buried today and immediately forgotten.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

37 Days

Looking over older posts and cleaning up emails this morning, I came across this post from 2007 that still resonates true today. If there were any changes to be made, it would only be this: to embrace my passion and never let it go, for it is the lifeline to my soul.


*****
I've just come across an inspiring blog that asks what would you be doing today if you had 37 days to live?  Very good question. Discomforting feelings arise with this question because it forces you to face your illusion of a long life against the unknown of your expiry date.  To ask yourself whether your life has been well-lived or well-spent, whether you have given your very best, and if you've had any regrets (and have you learned from them), are questions that should be asked throughout our living years and not on the eve of our death.

So what would I start doing today, knowing I had 37 days left to live? Or, better yet, knowing tomorrow might not be a guarantee?

~ I'd eat well all of the time instead of some of the time because I wouldn't want to know that I contributed foolishly to the ceasing of my existence simply because of a weak will.

~ I'd exercise more and stop looking for excuses around every bend.

~ I'd stop and take a deep breath whenever I'd feel overwhelmed instead of letting emotions carry me to dark or anxious places.

~ I'd give unconditional love to all and embrace their individualities acknowledging that a world where we are all the same is a very vanilla, boring world. There are reasons why we all were made different - survival of the species being primary.

~ I'd go out with friends and family more and try to curb my cocoon spirit that thrives on the stillness and silence of solitude.

~ I'd take a little more sun in the summer and absorb that natural Vitamin D.

~ I'd never stop gaining knowledge and will continue to do so until my brain can no longer understand.

~ I'd disconnect from the daily tech bombardment and have more long conversations [those that last for hours] with Beloved where we connect on so many levels and takes us back to the genesis of our relationship where it all began. This is why it works; this is why we stayed; this is where we feel most at home.

~ I'd tell him that I've loved him from the first moment I saw him and haven't stopped since. I saw my future in his eyes and never wanted to separate myself from his gentle spirit.

~ I'd thank him for taking such good and tender care of my heart and being the nurturing soul I needed in my life.

~ I'd tell him that I still found his face to be the map to my soul: the weight and experience of life in the lines etched deeply in his skin; the eyes that look at me with much tenderness and affection; the smile that is still the Achilles Heel of my soul.

~ I'd tell my daughter that her beautiful face, sweet voice and gentle smile is etched deep inside my heart and soul and is much a part of me as breathing.

~ I'd tell her that she was the best thing that ever happened to me and she made it easy for me to be her mother.

~ I'd tell her that the smile she entered this world with is still the one thing I still look forward to the most each time I see her.

~ I'd tell her not to cry so much for very few things are worth her tears.

~ I'd tell her to balance any act of ill-will against her with an act of kindness.

~ I'd continue to live within the hearth of my family's love.

~ I'd continue to live my life with the happy heart God so graciously provided me with.

~ I'd allow myself to be sad and be fine with that because sometimes a good cry cures many ills.

~ I'd continue to never being the instrument that hurts another verbally or cause them pain.

~ I'd continue to put a smile on my face, even when it is hard, for in that very act my own spirits will be lifted.

~ I would no longer dwell on regrets.

~ I would no longer dwell on things said but make a promise to learn from them and never repeat them.

~ I would become brave and throw fear to the wind for there are truly very few things to be fearful of in this world. The most feared things are the ones that your mind imagines.

~ I would forgive those that have hurt me and realize that I have also hurt in return.

~ I would continue to do all of these things and more. But the thing I would do the most is to continue giving all of me, giving all of my love.

These are the things that I would do had I 37 days. These are the things that I will do now knowing tomorrow may not be a guarantee.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Carriers


For Trifecta Writing Challenge.  Use the word manipulate (transitive verb) in a response not to exceed 333 words. Use it in the meaning given: to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one's purpose; doctor.  For 3WW use the following words in a post: rogue, passive, accelerate.

“We must manipulate genes further.  Some hybrids still possess rogue multitudinous human characteristics,” Xur stated.

“I remain unchanged in my assessment. Their life givers are immature in development.  Specifically, their brains. Further gene manipulation will not succeed in augmenting brain function. They are intellectual invalids,” Acog replied.

“Their brains are inconsequential. They are birthing vessels, vessels necessary for our species to continue to exist.  Intellectual capacity is not imperative; they are carriers. That is all.”

“Yet, it is their lack of intellect that concerns,” replied Acog. “They will not be passive, abiding birthing slaves. They will bring their viruses of infantile reasoning, hysteria and opposition to our planet.”

“Understood.” Xur thought Acog’s opinion illogical. It was not their decision and it was out of their hands.  “Have you any luck with Mother All?”

“No. As I stated earlier, she is an anomaly.  Her intellectual and visceral capabilities are extraordinary for her kind. She is not swayed easily. Upon orders I deprived her therapist of life and have assumed his body as my own. She does not believe our tests to be dreams like the others do.  She believes them to be factual.  And with each genetic manipulation and implantation, her intellectual knowledge is growing exponentially.”

“That is good news then,” replied Xur, satisfied with the news.

“No. As Mother-All she is influential to the continuance of our race. Yet, our genetic imprint will not completely eradicate her emotional and visceral powers that is pernicious to our experiments.”

“What then do you suggest? To inform Commission is to have our lives be terminated on grounds of failure.” 

Acog had been thinking about this for some time, “Continue accelerating gene manipulation to create more superior hybrids and, to avoid any form of resistance from birth vessels, place all subjects, including Mother-All, in comatose states. When they have exhausted their reproductive stages, they will be terminated.  By then, our species will have been saved."

“Agreed," answered Xur.

“Concur," replied Acog.