seconds.

Dreams, made to last.
Can we, human,
Invuln'rable
To time and cracks
Morphine and snacks
Snarks and grapefruit
Rage and Entmoot
Tears and whirlpool
Midnight and Kool
- Aid

Be?

twins - 1.1

"I see you still have not succeeded in Naming your hands."
"I have no need to.  Sister has no ways to defend against me."
"She has no need to defend against you.  You will touch no one out of this training ground with your skills."
"Is not Sister the strongest on the Gray Plaens?  I have fought my first match.  I knew nothing of it.  And still, I have won."
"She is not the strongest on the Gray Plaens.  Close, yes.  But that is irrelevant.  The Gray Plaens is the weakest of the colored Plaens."

The liquid surged upward, off the mezzanine.  It was dark.  Raw.  The blood formed thousands of minuscule spikes.  Higher, without a sound, onto the roof, mixing the the rain.  Suspended, they waited for the Name.

"Brother, you believe I need to defend myself to an unNamed hand?"
I smiled.  His face was priceless.  It wouldn't last long.  I Named my hands.
"Fall Regret, Ora Raen."

Father was untouched, his smile widening under the downpour.

wére.

Morgan sat slumped over, his hair falling over his face, whitened from lack of sunlight and nutrition.  His drifting consciousness registered a figure standing in front of his cell.  The door swung open without a sound. The torture would begin again today; but today was different.  The figure spoke, with his eyes closed, his chest forward.  His voice was high, grating.

"I hope you understand why I'm here, Mr. Frieman.  I harbor no ill will towards you... But it is my duty to enlighten you as to why you are in here.  As you know, the society of Non Tenor Voices has been long abolished.  You, as the head of that society, have no rights to speak of within our glorious and ebullient na-" He stuttered.  "Mah, meh, mii.  Mhmm.  You, as the head of that society, have no rights to speak of within our glorious and ebullient nation.  Therefore, I will attempt, unwillingly, to enlighten you on your rights within reason.  There was a story of a boy, just like you.  His name was, well, he had no name, but they called him Old Man River.  And now, Old Man Riv-- Mah, meh, mii.  And now, Old Man River, he had a beautiful head of hair.  I would even venture to liken it to my own, but, eh, he had a beautiful head of hair.  No one in all the village could compare to his engrati-- Mah, meh, mii.  Eh, what's this?"

The cell door had swung shut behind him.  The figure was the only one left in the cell.

under the pavement.

My head is two feet lower than the ceiling
the ceiling two feet higher than my head
My fingers glaze the metal grating
the grating which I pinch to keep my stead
The train is rolling and is screeching
screeching and jostling at union square
The standing strangers are exchanging
exchanging places as they squeeze to exit there
I'm checked-out, weary, and I'm wasting
wasting minutes in the mindless rush of transit
Aware and independent and enveloped
enveloped in the city, as one who stands it

didn't.

>< has entered the chat room.

<#> has entered the chat room.

"It's come to a point where I think... I make the same mistakes over and over again, but I just don't stop the journey leading to the mistake, even after the fiftieth, sixtieth time.  The hell is this?  Hell?"

"Language."

"Oh, sorry."

"Yeah, it's not hell.  It's like a horrid addiction that you don't even like.  You mean like when you want to quit spending an hour in bed after you actually wake up in the morning?"

"Like that.  I chew ice even though I got braces.  I've broken my brackets six times now.  And chipped a tooth."

"Wow, you're pretty stupid."

"Right back at you.  Like, even things, eating too much sugar or salt...  When you know it's unhealthy."

"I'm a vegetarian."

"And you don't binge sometimes?"

"Ahee.  Addictions are just horrid stuffs."

"Took you a while."

"Just so you know, sarcasm is usually very porrly portrayed through written word."

"*Poorly."

"Shut up."

deadline.

Nine minutes.

I hid the crackers under my bed.  I hid the TV under my bed.

Eight minutes.  

Concentrate.  Stress is a figment of your imagination.

Seven minutes.

My palms were sweaty.  This would be the worst opportunity to a girl to show up.  Sweaty palms.  I haven't combed my hair today.

Six minutes.

Concentrate.  What's the topic?  Okay, I brought up Henry Ford, a mecha anime, and the nail polish I stole from my sister.  Right, it's invention.

Five minutes.

Why did you steal that nail polish anyway?

Four minutes.

I got into a fight with my mom before coming again.  She always messes with my concentration.  Bloody hounds.  No.  Wait, what...

Three minutes.

Oh, shoot, I'm writing an essay.  Razzle-dazzle ending.  Got it.  

Two minutes.

But what should I say???  Henry Ford, who's that?

"Pens down."

One minute.

I miscalculated.

goodbye for now.

A breath is all
we are.  Perhaps
tomorrow today
yesterday we too
shall fade away.

A life too brief
to us.  Unless
in time before time
of time our Lord
ordained it all.

A sigh so deep -
our grief.  But still
though weary down
depressed the rain
turns into snow.

in Memoriam
Graham Stevens (1994-2013)

blemish - 1.3

Character List: 
The Artist | The Lady | The Commissioner | Henrietta | Louise 

Henrietta pursed her lips.  "Louise, there is blood coming from your hand."  The maid produced a speckled handkerchief, curiously coloured red and white, to stem the blood.  Her voice was raspy.  "It's an aftereffect of Time, my lord.  There are streams in my systems that cannot withstand the seals."  Henrietta's smile vanished.  "Would you like me to reset you?"  Louise held up three fingers: index, ring, thumb.  No.  The smile reappeared, and Henrietta stepped back from the Likeness, saying, "Well.  For my first experience of Time, it was quite refreshing.  Is this the only venue?"

Louise restrained the shock from her face.  All of her charges had experienced Time.  None of them had called it refreshing.  Four had fainted.  In the world, Time was not experienced in a linear fashion along with one's life.  Time did not move.  One second of Time allotted to each of those in this world.  No more.  No more was necessary.  And yet this young lord, this... Henrietta, she asked for more.  Life passed when Time passed.  

"It is not, my lord, but your one second has been taken.  Any more, and your life will pass, faster than you imagine."

"Let it pass.  I will be the only one in my family.  I will be the only one in the world."

this day is mine - 1.1

"'ARRGGHH' I screamed. For as I learned from the whale, dolphins become confused when they hear a scream, since their main form of communication is echolocation.......and violence. Basically when I screamed, the dolphins heard, 'hey Bob, pass the pancakes, I put way too much maple syrup.' (this is a rough translation of course, since the language of Dolphin - or flabber as they call it - and English are very far apart).  Now, in dolphin circles, the the words 'syrup', and 'pass' don't mean much. However, there are a few dolphins named Bob here and there. And they do love a good pancake. But the reason why the dolphins were so confused was that the Bobs normally worked in the financial department of the LVD, and they don't get off from work 'till around 6ish. How can they possibly be having pancakes at this time of the day? With this scream, I dove into the murky depths of the LVD cove. Armed with a trident, sandwich, and a picture of Morgan Freeman, I quickly found myself unable to breathe, so I came back to the surface, grabbed another picture of Morgan Freeman, then dove into the murky depths once again. What terrors lay before me? What trials of endurance must I face? Why in the world do I only have two pictures of Morgan Freeman instead of 10? All these questions and more will be answered next time, on...........eeeeehhhggghh.....!!"

surreal.

They were just around the corner.  I had to find my way to the king.  There was only one person who could protect him.  Me.  I found my way down the spiral staircase to the library, pulling out the Sixth Edition of the rewritten David vs. Goliath as I passed by a shelf.  Faster.  Tossing the book in front of me, I wove the hand seals - horse, boar, man - caught the book.  The power of the wind flooded through my body.  Only twenty flights of stairs.  I would save the queen.  Yeah, there wasn't really a king.  The queen was a widow.  I would save her, and then she'd fall into my arms.  "Arbor Trillium!"  Earthen wings of flora guided my way up the,         "-ephen!  Stephen!!  You've been in your room for forty-five minutes.  It's 10:23.  This is unacceptable!  Any normal high school boy would be in class now.  You're never waking up and locking the door and going back to, to sleep again.  One more time and I'll tell your father to take down your door.  Oh, and you can't close the door when you're doing homework.  No one knows what you're doing in there.  I'll tell your father to take down your door.  Are you listening?  Open the door.  Open the door!"

***No names were changed in the writing of this piece.

pass.

Hina clutched the pencil tightly in her hands as she ran down the avenue.  Nightmarish thoughts rushed about in her head as the wind played with her hair: I have to hold onto this tightly or I might drop -- But if I hold onto it too tightly, might I make it sweaty?  I hope the eraser doesn't fall off.  But none of that mattered.  She had to run.  

Peter clutched the player tightly in his hands as he strolled down the avenue.  Nightmarish thoughts rushed about in his head as the wind found no purchase in his buzz cut: I can't sway to this, not out in the open.  But... Tokyo Jihen is on... Blackout... Oh.  Someone save me.  Hina saved him.

"I, I, uh... This is your pencil."  The way it came out of her mouth made it sound like "pensuhhhaa."  Her cheeks flushed.  Don't look at him, just...

"Oh, you're in my chem class!  I'm sorry, you ran all the way to the music labs for that?  That's sweet.  Thanks."  Is what I'd like to say.  Okay, Petey, go.

"Thanks very much."  The way it came out of his mouth made it sound like "verrr muhhhhaaa."  Peter reached out and took the pencil; took the pencil, brushed her hand; brushed her hand, sparked it; sparked it, let go.  The pencil fell with a dull click onto the pavement.

"Um, sorry."

Who said that?

the bloggers.

Art, Serfy, and Col -

Summer, Autumn, and Winter.

Oh wait. Now he’s Fourth.

....Fourth what?

(Haikus are so amusing.)

dinner party.

"Hey, a cow is a herbivore, isn't it?"
"Yes!"
"So if we eat a cow, it's like eating grass and meat at the same time?"

The padded hammers hit gently at the strings as Jacob pressed the keys, producing a non-intrusive, non-calming, non-fitting melody, the perfect atmospheric for a dinner party.  He smiled; strains of such conversations were more why he played than money.  There was that too... But he liked to think he was more of a noble character than a grubbing salaryman.

"I'm so angry with you, sorry.  So quit trying to cheer me up."
"I'm really sick, so sick... of this food."
"Is that so?  Keep babbling, that's just fine."

"The radio was talking about the robbery in Inkritch the other day."
"Did you hear -- I could have sworn they said he had no head."

"There were four!  One had a big, brown straw hat."
"And they just jumped in the pool?"
"Stark nake --"

It was at this moment that the man decided to make his entrance.  "Put your hands up!  Everyone on the floor!  N-no one move."

Jacob smiled, put in an acciaccatura, raised one hand in an L shape.  His thumb crooked.  "Bang."

- for Summer and Autumn

clothes - 1.0

"I want to ask you a question," said Brian.

"Well um . . . that's always a good start," I answered with a slight smile.  I was a little hesitant; the last time a boy said that to me, it had ended quite awkwardly.

"Do your suspenders actually hold your skirt up?"  He asked earnestly, as if it were important that he know the answer.  Oh.  And here I thought he was going down that other path.  I laughed and stuck my thumbs into my suspenders, like they do in movies.

"Not really?  I mean, my skirt wouldn't fall down if I wasn't wearing suspenders."

"Oh."  Did he look . . . disappointed?  Weird.  "Well, I guess that's why I'm wearing a belt.  It's not like my pants would just fall down."

"Oh, I mean my skirt wouldn't just fall down, but it's a little big on me so it would be down here awkwardly at my hips."  I gestured with my hand the exact awkward place at my hip.  Where is this going??  "I . . . generally like to buy clothes that don't just fall down."  Great going, Rose, exactly what people say when they make small talk!

"Me too!"  Brian laughed.

I turned to open the window.

blemish - 1.2

Character List: 
The Artist | The Lady | The Commissioner | Henrietta | Louise 

"Louise." "Yes, my lord." The doors felt paper-thin in Louise' hands as she pushed, but they would not be moved. She blew softly onto the doorknob, uncovering the keyhole. "My lord, this is the last resting place of the Artist and your Likeness. Are you quite ready to enter?" Henrietta smiled. Was a crooked smile. "I think I am, quite." Louise inclined her head, kneeling down and placing the doorknob against the seal on her neck. Thhh.... Rustles down the hallway. The clicking began anew as the rats fled to their haven. This smile was not crooked. It was beautiful. Henrietta glided through the doors, breaking the second seal. Her maid followed, silently, almost.

The Artist lay under the fallen canvas, lay in a pool of nondescript red, lay next to her.

An upturned corner on the sheet shows her face, perfect, save a small drop of nondescript red on her cheeks, pale and ghastly in the moonlight. A blemish.

Henrietta's dress fluttered as she skipped lightly over the far corner, admiring the face that stared past her at the ceiling. "That... is my Likeness?" "Quite far in the future, my lord. It well becomes you." Louise crouched next to the Artist's shoulders, blew softly onto his face; then, released the fist she had been clenching since called by her lord. The clock began to chime. The stench of a newly rotting body immediately occupied the room. Only the rats did not move. One drop of blood fell from Louise' palm as she closed it. The scent became null, odourless, once again. Louise had moved the Time for one second; but the jarring sensation in her gut, the taste of nothing in her mouth, came from elsewhere. Time was an old experience. But Louise had seen Henrietta's face; in all her years of service, that one face, experiencing one Time for one second, was the only one that had smiled through it.

blemish - 1.1

Character List: 
The Artist | The Lady | The Commissioner | Henrietta | Louise 

The Commissioner stepped into the room.  The clicks and echoes through the room as the rats scattered; the rising sun streaming in through half-glazed windows.  Bending down, he placed a fist into the pool of blood, lifted it.  Threw his fist in an arc.  The black red fell effortlessly onto canvas, whitewall, and carpet alike.  The Commissioner took, with his clean hand, a kerchief out of his trench pocket, wiping his tainted hand clean.  "Thank you for completing the commission."  The words hung in the air.  The Artist's unseeing eyes, open in surprise and resignation, acknowledged the gratitude.  A few coins spilled onto the floor next to his face, payment that would never be used for any other bargain.  Pale and ghastly in the sunlight.

Henrietta glided down the hallway; it was a skill she'd picked up from her mother.  Learning to navigate the floors without sound.  A nice skill.  She peeked over the banister, which reached above her head - only a few inches left to grow.  "Thirteen, mmm?  Well.  I suppose perhaps I can go over to the other side now."  Her hand reached forward, stopped, reached forward.  "Louise?"  The maid came out of the shadows, almost instantly, almost too quickly.  "Yes, my lord."  "Will you accompany me to the other side?"  Louise inclined her head ever so slightly, one eyebrow higher than the other.  "Yes, my lord."  

The Time bent.

live.

It’s a pitter, a patter
A quick-deal matter
A song of gold
A story re-told.

Then it's gone, leaving us afraid to breathe, try, fall.  So, we wait.

We wait for better days…
Or so we say.
We think that time will tell…
Hoping all will be well.

But, there is a voice – softer and more persistent than all the rest.  It resounds in the innermost part of my heart, whispering a warning…  Life is too short.  Too short to not love and to not care – too short to not indulge in living.

And so I choose to breathe, try, fall.  I choose to live.

long - 1.1

"Well... You can't just tell me that and expect me to answer you."
I eased Sword gently out of its sheath, but I was still quite a long way away.
She was still long away.  "Wha-" Inches.  Just inches?
"How did you... get here?  How did I...?"  Her hand pressed on mine, seating Sword back in its sheath.
"Questions will have answers.  But for now, come to the palace of the wyvern king."
I'd thought this was the palace.
"It's not, really, just the reception area for visitors, which I unfortunately don't get very often."
"You can read my mind?"
"Also unfortunately.  It's a bad habit I picked up."
The doors fell open, stretching long into the distance.  Or, it was just a step's length.
"This is quite, em... interesting."  Confusing.
"It does seem quite confusing at first, but my wish is that it will grow on you."
"Sorry."
"It's alright.  I've been waiting.  A bit of hesitance, I don't mind.  But, the Hero... You are much braver than I'd imagined.  I saw the fight with my wyvern Guard."
"You couldn't have just called them off, since you were planning... this?"
"Well, you know, it's uh... I don't make rational decisions when I'm in love.  I'm just a wyvern."
In love with someone she'd never met...
"Well, I've dreamed."
"I can't even think."

trauma - 1.2

                Dear Natalie,

I just want to you that I’ve missed you. You are the kindest, brightest person I’ve ever known. I’m sorry that I lost touch. I shouldn’t have. Remember the time you wrote me a letter while we were sitting in the same room? You even put on your address and I added mine. I’ve kept it all these years and it reminds me of all the fun times we had. 

Please live. 

With that, he ripped the piece of paper apart. 

“Just tell her - I’ll be back tomorrow.”

scared.

Fay runs and the sticks under her shoes snap.
The mud seeps to the sides of the shoes.
She pants; her breath heaves.
She runs from what she's seen: a deer sprinting across the highway, a Suburban rollicking around a bend, and the groan of metal and sliced flesh.
The machines could be anywhere behind her, angrily upturning the underbrush, crushing the mud, catching Fay between their teeth.

bliss.

"The setting sun creating a mosaic of reflections through dusty sheets of some sort of clear, hard substance. They could have told us it was hardened water, for all we cared. It was pretty. Trees changing different colors for some reason. They could have told us it was Green being bored with what he was and decided to become Orange, for all we cared. It was beautiful. Sounds coming from pieces of wood and metal. They could have told us little people made those sounds within, for all we cared. It was wonderful. The sun shining on our backs while we turned rocks over to look for snails. They could have told us God was shining a flashlight down to help us out, for all we cared. It was fun. They could have told us many things, for all we cared. For all we cared. But in reality, it was our world. We made the rules, we set the standards, and we didn't care. Then we started caring........."

twins - 1.0

      Trembling, I hefted the knife and slid under spider-cracked window, suppressing a gasp as my face gashed against a glass blade.  And then - it was at these times that blood really wasn't necessary.  The drips from my cut fell onto the carpet; black against the carpet, visible by moonlight.  No matter.  It would all burn.

      A square of whitewall and wood fell neatly into my hands.  I loved the sweet, low hum of night; it was alive.  It was vibrant.  A perfect night for burglary.  But then came the splintering.  What if...?  Bending down, I beheld a most curious sight.  It was...

      "Brother?"

"Sister."

      "I told you I'd be taking this house tonight."

"I left a message on the mirror at home."
      "You broke the mirror yesterday."

"Then.  I left a message on the broken mirror at home."

      "Half and half?"

"You know we don't work like that."

      

Sister slipped from the open window, the blood flowing with her hair as she fell nine stories, down to the mezzanine under the third floor.  A satisfying thud.  It would all burn.  Then the rain came.

His favorite daughter, abused by his prodigal son, brought on the onslaught of water.  Nothing would burn.  People would live.  I sighed one sigh.  

"Father."

trauma - 1.1

Room 205. Room 205. Room 205… The number raced around in his head as he stepped into the hospital elevator.

What would he say to her? Would she even be conscious? He wanted to laugh it off – of course she’d be alright! She always had, even when she fell from the stairs in her house and had to get stitches.

He pondered again what Mrs. Coughlin had told him. A car accident. Despite Natalie’s typical blunders, she was a careful driver. It seemed unfair that she should be injured by someone else’s heedlessness.

Stepping out of the elevator, he passed by some nurses talking.

“Did you see her?”

“There are so many flowers and cards.”

“She’s finally asleep, thank God.”

Worried, he passed by quickly only to find that Room 205 was right behind him.

At that moment, Mrs. Coughlin emerged from the door. 

“Tyler, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said warmly. “Natalie is asleep right now, but would you like to write her a card for when she wakes up?”

Taking the piece of stationary from her, Tyler sat down on a nearby chair and began to write.

hipster - ii.

It was at the stoplight again.

Looking out the windows of my old navy Corolla waiting for the light to change, I see this teenage guy strutting like a model down the sidewalk. Nodding his head to the music from his bulky headphones, he holds a black leather bag awkwardly under his arm. As he jaywalks across the road, I can't help but wonder about him.

Leaning back to face Aaron, I ask, “On a dare?”

“Maybe just hipster,” he says smugly.

window.

Open.  Close.
Slip.  Slap.
Whoosh.  Bang.

The door drops.  Dramatically.

Icicles form and decay.  Inside, the fairies grin and spin tall tales.  Perhaps one day, they too will know the meaning of delight.

On.  Off.
Up.  Down.
Click.  Clack.

Pulse.

π.

I asked Bluebird: Have you seen π?

Bluebird chirped: Too-whee, twee twee twee!
and flew away.

I asked Squirrel: Have you seen π?

Squirrel chattered: Brrrrrip, brip, ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
and scrambled higher in his tree.

I asked Deer: Have you seen π?

Deer snorted: Bhrrrrrrumph!
and switched its white tail in my face.

I asked Daddy: Have you seen π?

Daddy smiled: There it is, on the dinner table - Mommy's homemade apple π!

hipster.

I squeal through a yellow light.

"That's sooo hipster!"

Wait, what?  I glance at Aaron in the passenger seat.

"Um, do you even know what that word means?" I ask.

"Duh, I do.  It's like anything that's supah-cool." He grins and snatches the sunglasses from my nose.  "Ooooh now I'm hipster!"

I shake my head.  This kid.  I open my mouth to protest but before I can get a word out, Aaron grabs my beanie and shoves it on his own head.

"I'm hipster, I'm hipster, more hipster than a . . . tipster," he sings in an obnoxiously off-key voice.  He puts on his serious face and turns to me.  "I'm just hipster because you're hipster and I'm wearing part of you right now."

We reach a yellow light.  This time I make the decision to slow down, like I should.

trauma - 1.0

Buzz. Buzz.

Tyler pulled out his phone, glancing quickly at the clock. 9:19pm. No one should be calling him at this time.

Perplexed, he picked up his cell phone. “Hello?”

A strained, but familiar voice answered him. “Is this Tyler Ricks? It's Mrs. Coughlin, Natalie’s mom.”

Natalie? The name of his childhood babysitter surprised him. In the days when she would corral him and his brother to bed, he used to follow her around at county fairs or sit on the curb eating the ice cream she had bought for him. But he hadn’t seen her since he went off to college.

He suddenly realized that there had been a long pause on the phone. He heard hesitant breathing.

Softly, she continued. “Natalie is in the hospital right now, dearie. Some fool was driving too fast tonight. She would very much like to see you – and well… it’s pretty serious.”

Her voice choked.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs. Coughlin.”

3/12/13. dear elsie.

Whatever you can manage.  That's all I ask.  I can take you out for texting and scones.  I can take you out for walks.  But none of those things will ever be, if you can't be here.  
Remember when you ate that last meatball on your plate, and you still had some spaghetti left and you know, and I know, that you can’t eat spaghetti without meatballs. Remember?
Remember when you found out that the larynx isn't a weapon or a part of your leg? Remember?

I can remember. Why did you have to leave? I'm just being a sore loser. But somehow, I don't want to lose. I don't want to lose to anyone. But there's one person I always lose to. He's not even a person. He's not even my dad.

And then ther [here, the text is obscured by some unidentifiable brown substance.]

Sorry, I spilled coffee there.

Signed:

Eisle

For:

elsie, 1913 to 1964.

long - 1.0

[Read:: in a Bristol accent ::Read]

Reclining at the end of the wyvern hall was a long woman.  Everything was wrong.  Long.  My hands tensed; I began walking down the oddly light blue carpet, seemingly unaware of its non-place among the deep red decor of the wyvern's eyes.  The pale colours remained undiminished against my caked, muddied boots.  The hall stretched... stretched.  Long.  How many seconds had it been?  Sweat beaded on my chin, dropped.  Looked down... it was still dropping.  Long.  A long way down.  

I reached the woman.  Everything was long.

"He will say yes to anything you ask of him because he loves like you love: sometimes too eagerly, sometimes too early, but always deeply."
Something was wrong.  This wasn't... exactly what I had come for...?  Why was the king a woman anyway.
"I'm sorry?  Are you not the wyvern king?"
"I am the wyvern king.  Welcome.  I am the wyvern king.  And you are finally here.  My Hero."
"Excuse me?  I came to... to defeat you!"
"I am here to be defeated, Hero.  By you."
"I can't.  I do-I don't hit women."  Stuttering.  This is not what Heroes are made of.
"Then marry me."

shall we dance?

"You what?!"

"I'm sorry, I just . . . "

"Were you gonna tell me?"

"Yes!  Yes, of course."

"Yeah, when were you gonna tell me?"

Gosh, this is straight out of a soap opera.  Annie closed her eyes.

"Annie!  When were you gonna tell me?"

Annie opened her eyes to see Nate's pained eyes inches away from her.  She closed her eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Nate," she whispered.  "It's . . . just a dance."

"No, no, it's not.  You told me you wanted time off and I thought that meant we both weren't gonna fool around."  Nate pushed the table away and stood up.  Annie grabbed his arm and he swung her hand away.

"Nate, please, what are you doing?"

"If this is what you think of us, how you can treat me, then this - whatever it is, whatever it was - this is over."

left to right.

"The rain treads heavy with elephant feet
Leaves fall between the waking summer blades."

"Scars under the umbrellas twice do meet

To steal apart before the glow'ring shade."

Remember?  That was the first poem we wrote together.  I never fancied writing poetry much.  I can't read without getting a terrific headache.  But, how did the move to Ikebukuro treat you?  Back home is still... well, hasn't changed much.  Need a car to drive anywhere.  I thought I'd have more to write.  It's not like we haven't been talking, but I thought I'd be nice and archaic and write you an English letter.  Bit sappy now that I think about it, isn't it?  Too many questions.  You don't need to write back; just mail me when you get it.  Sister's been missing you.  This is the thing about being left-handed: I can't write anything without smudging the paper.  

                       Heard you don't use credit cards over there.  How're things with that?  Can't imagine having to use money for everything instead of credit.  I don't even know why I started a new paragraph, don't have anything left to write.  Spring is coming.  How's the weather?

I love you.

 - Strength

blemish - 1.0

Character List: 
The Artist | The Lady 

She applies the gloss gently to her lips.  A gentle shine permeates the room.  Long lashes accent the deep, gazing, blue-green eyes, penetrating, revealing.  Voluminous curls fall over her lightly tanned skin, every hair perfectly in place.  Smooth skin, no wrinkles, no imperfections.  Her evening gown contrasts a dark mahogany shade to her skin, hands placed naturally by her sides.  A smile.  All without imperfection.

The Artist put down his pencil.  He smiled back at his creation as the waning sunlight struck the canvas through a drawn window.  The commission was finished.  All drawn from his imagination; all drawn in reminiscence of the Lady.  Six years of age weighed on his brow.  Six years, now finished.  He climbed down the seventy-four stairs and stepped slowly backwards from the canvas, in its eighty feet of majesty.  Up, up.  His gaze rested upon her face, a finished work.  All drawn in pencil, all without imperfection.

The creaking began, slowly at first.  The rats had gnawed the rope thin; they had been attracted by the Artist's rotting food trails and now, unsatisfied, ate at his work.  Pale beams of moonlight spilled upon her smiling face, which tilted, tilted.  The rope's strands were separated.  

The Artist lay under the fallen canvas, lay in a pool of nondescript red, lay next to her.

An upturned corner on the sheet shows her face, perfect, save a small drop of nondescript red on her cheeks, pale and ghastly in the moonlight.  A blemish.

enemy.

"Did you hear?  Everyone who was attacked said that the guy had no eyes."

"No,no, I don't think that's quite right.  He just had completely black eyes."

"You mean he had black pupils? Like just black all the way through?"

"I think you mean black retina.  At any rate, I'm not going out later than ten."

"Neither of you are right.  But, I have to sign off for now.  I'll see you on P.I. tomorrow."

-- has left the chat room.

"Night.  He always leaves so quickly, mm."

<> has left the chat room.

"Are you serious...."

-- has entered the chat room.

"Oh.  I thought you had to leave?"

"Life. 

 Life.

 Life.Life.Life.Life.

 I have to give Life."

"Um"

"Lost.Life.Life."

"Seriously"

"Life."

"Spam?"

"Life.Life.Life.Life.Life.Life."

>< has left the chat room.

"Life." 

-- has left the chat room.

a duet.

They sang the song.  Their voices fit together perfectly in an impossibly well-balanced blend of strength and solace.  It should have sounded so wrong, but it sounded so right.  So right... save one detail.

He liked the harmony.  It suited them best.

She, however, liked the melody: clear, strong, and unwavering in its power.  There were moments when it seemed as though she would yield to the gentle harmony…  Perhaps she would find the ethereal beauty in it – the nearly impossible-to-detect string of love.

No, it was only a momentary lapse – nothing more, nothing less.  Her brief hesitation was not enough to save their song.  She played the delicate portion on his heart one moment and ruthlessly pounded away at the melody the next.

He liked the harmony.  It suited them best.  But alas, she would never know.

perfection.

Splotches of black paint -- no, blood -- litter the sidewalk.  A gentle breezes wafts through your jackets, whispering unintelligibly, beckoning your footsteps to imprint upon the fine layer of dust coating everything.  A low, rusty ladder straddles the narrow street, leaving enough room for cats and vermin to pass through.  Time stills in a mosaic of idyllic imperfection.

              I worked my way up the stairs, heedless of the countless creaks and snaps, focused.  The door to the rooftop; my last obstacle.  The air nipped at my exposed neck.  What a dull rooftop.  The first rays of sunlight peeked out over the western horizon.  This would have to be done without contemplation.  The right edge of the rooftop.  It was friendly.  Accepting.  No time.  I jumped.

Splotches of black paint -- no, blood -- litter the sidewalk.  A gentle breezes wafts through your jackets, whispering unintelligibly, beckoning your eyes to cast light on the figure lying prone next to the ladder.  The blood is pooling.

home.

If I lived in a massive library

I would study by the light of the lamps,

Explore the stacks of books tenaciously,

Or cuddle up on the sofas to read.

I would pull out my pencils and paper

Ready to take notes or write to my best

Or peruse my textbook and its author

Drinking in the glorious quietness.

But silence would drain me after a while,

“Is anyone here? Does anyone care?”

I slowly realize I’m only a child -

I can’t go for long without someone there.

                Today I am thankful for family

                The people I live with who care for me.