The Ink Mistress and the Man with Eyes of a Vulture

The ink fell thick and liberal from her tongue and she smeared it across his chest. His eyes like vultures watched her paint, the valleys of color that stained her fingermoons and dripped down the flat plain of his stomach. She retched and coughed and gagged low in her throat as the flow continued. This was sacrifice. This was love in the making. He grabbed her hands and guided them lower. They formed black pools on his hips and he began a shuffling waltz, the rainbow dribbling from her mouth and staining their feet.

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Her spine curved against the cold marble as she stretched. Her feet touched at the toes and she crossed her arms up to her elbows in front of her. The long legs of her scarf breezed the floor and she then realigned. Her eyes met those of the man behind the counter and a metallic taste tickled the back of her tongue. Her eyes moved to the imposing steel vents protruding from the ceiling. She recalled a dream the same color as they, a deep greenish grey in which she had carried small innocence to safety and sacrificed her flesh to the wolf. It might’ve been a mistake, but she was awake now. She paid for her postage and left. The cool breeze of the snowcloud day emptied her thoughts. She gulped a mouthful of air to banish the copper resting in her throat.

A vulture sat on a signpost across the street. It watched her, or rather, watched a spot behind her until a speeding bus lifted it away. She followed its shadow on the sidewalk as it circled the post office. The sky began to snow. The fresh petals danced under cars, serpentining and doubling back until the safety of a gutter or patch of grass was reached. If she was a musician, she would’ve thought of a melody to match their effervescence. She rewrapped her scarf and walked away.

Lynford and Natalie, part 2

There is so much blood coursing through his veins. The first barrage brings her to tears and through the mist she sees the slow motion of his first blow. Her throat pounds as a heart and she falls against the trees. There is a question she knows down to her fingertips and her breath is the answer and dissolves among the branches and a low mumbling shakes her feet. The trees are gasping and unfurling in the dusky air and she can only think to murmur "Yes."

The Burmingham Method©: How to Wake Up with No Family

Move away. Pack your life in flimsy cardboard and haul it across state lines. Call your friends, pay off your debts, sell your dog to Ms. Edna down the street. Do not hesitate. Do not be swayed by your father’s questioning brow, your sister’s clinging eyes, your mother’s photo albums.

Arrive in a new city. Find a roommate and a job; unpack half your things on the first day’s adrenaline rush; leave the rest rotting in their boxes for another month. Use public transportation, but keep your eyes lowered and stare only at the grey-grimed streets. Learn to hate tourists. Buy fresh fish every weekend. These are just mental preparations.

Live this way for three months. Console your roommate when his girlfriend leaves him, but refuse to meet his friends. Remove yourself from social situations. Drink only water. Do not laugh at office parties. These are proven methods that will make the final step a breeze.

Wake up on a beautiful morning, a tower of solitude. Leave your share of the next month’s rent taped to the microwave; bring no regrets. We try to make ourselves available throughout the country. Though our methods are experimental, we have a high success rate. Finish living your current life and find us. It will only take five minutes. Tomorrow is a new beginning.
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A short-short I wrote for my fiction class last semester. It's a tiny bit vague, but I didn't feel like changing that. Just figured I'd update with something over here.

Cheating

She sat at the oak table stringing beads,
each specimen carefully lifted and inspected.
In one hand the gossamer string; it quivered
as blood pulsed her finger pads.
With windows opened to the spring chirping of birds,
she threaded: a small clink joined the silence of the kitchen.
This was factory work with grace. She continued.
Her threading lasted until I came home,
stringing lies in my head.

Lynford and Natalie

There’s a crowbar in the trunk because I won’t wait for time to break down your defenses. It will be a quiet night, a dark forest clearing where even the trees will join in my chorus of worship. And the first blow will take you away from them and closer to me. My hair’s your breath and your clenched teeth are the sinews threading my heart. One pound, two pound. The sighs from your lips power this ancient engine churning inside. I have worked myself to perfection to serve you gasping under the starlight. The veins in my skin pump viscosity to spill it at your feet and the only answer I need is “Yes.”

IDLE RIFFRAFF

My parents went to Dover Downs Saturday night, and I was responsible for taking out the dogs Sunday morning. By morning, they meant no later than 7am. Completely unacceptable. So instead of sleeping for five or so hours, I decided just NOT to sleep. What did I do? Watched Heroes season 1 and drank (count 'em) 10 cans of diet coke. My little sister, who endeavored upon this quest with me, didn't quite make it (she offed at 5). We made Velveeta around 2. I had some bread sticks and yogurt to keep me metabolizing. It was a night, definitely. My final hour count was 40. I got about 9 hours of sleep, which my body decided wasn't enough for lucidity. Bit of bad timing, since I had a test this morning. I didn't bomb it, but I could recognize a significant difference in my performance. Oh well.

Hey guys here's an awesome experiment! Comment if you read this! (hahahaha)

So I finally finally started my bookshelf painting thing again. It was pretty nice. Of course I changed the original panel design, but I can't draw cats, so it's okay. I learned how to draw stairs~ That sort of thing makes me think I could one day draw for srsly but honestly I was just looking at a Google picture the entire time. But! They look convincingly like stairs. If drawing didn't involve things like perspective and 3 dimensions, I'd be rolling in the money. Now I only have one panel left! And three weeks to do it (that's cutting it close haha)

Yeah, ask me how much of my to-do list I've accomplished, and the answer would be no. I wanted to write a story or two, I wanted to write a sestina, I wanted to sketch some ARG I would never start, and what did I do instead? Stick figures. Mind you, the addition of legs was a nice improvement, but I could've been doing so much more. Sigh.

I'm going through a fantastically interesting period of German learning. Like I can feel myself actually learning it. It's weird, because I've done it before (with English), and now I'm conscious of what is happening. It's hard to think of myself as a brain and some flabs of meat, but this drives the point home. My brain is rewiring itself.

Hhhhhhuh. Guys, I still struggle at expressing myself. I think to some level I'm screwed up in the head. I can easily shun people. I make up complex character-based melodramas in my head just to experience a kind of emotional connection. I criticize my actions and then criticize my criticisms. I'm a hypocrite who loves humans on the large scale but can ignore the woman across the street asking for help. (in the moment we are monsters) Sometimes it's easier to lie to people, especially when it gets me away from awkward situations quicker. I think I hate my family, but I hate that I hate. I can pull meta-bullshit out of my ass.

Well. That's enough meta for now. I think my body wants to sleep.

Some stream of consciousness writing

Just some words that have been floating around my head in various incarnations and finally found a way into reality.

The oblivion wraps her in warm breaths and silken fingertips - should she give in? - she hasn't felt at ease since she first discovered her body was fallible. Everyone tells her it's just youth and that feeling of indestructibility will fade until talk of dying becomes just as faded and inevitable as one's first apartment, or love.
-and why should she give in? It is more painful and alive to fight. She rejects this oblivion. It does not reject her.

I always have an issue typing up my stream-writing because I hardly ever punctuate or capitalize or (in one case above) use the correct words. Oh well. Raw writing.

I have noticed lately my responses to certain phrases, lines of dialogue, slogans, etc are hyped beyond normal. These words hold a significance to me, but I can't explain why. Some of them have come from dreams, some are connected to unrealized stories, some are just there.
FIELD-STOP hotel
as touch forbids, so sense compels
It loses something in translation
work quickly; we haven't time
"I wasn't lying."
she's there to stop him he's there to play it down
the terminal hand
the outsider/the observer/the one-who-came-before
The Harbinger brings word of your brother's death, Marley! do you rise to the challenge?
he burned out at 30 'cause he smiled too much
Ambrose Gilchrist has a twin
in the moment we are monsters

Well, German class is going well. I have not doodled once, and it feels great to have an energy outlet. Also, learning a language is a sweet way to feel hella smart.