Third Place in Contest; Amazing Review!

This one was for "Mint". The impressive bit is not the placement, but the review. Check it, chickies:

"A casual reader might mistake this short piece of Henderson for a passage out of a Rice vampire novel. Henderson expertly combines formal dialogue with subtle body language descriptors, which lends a dramatic surreality to the overall product. For readers who appreciate Henderson's artful character interactions, we recommend reading the short stories of Truman Capote. That we can link Capote in any way to Henderson demonstrates the quality of what she's done with 'Mint.'"

Progress

Life is all about splits, and straddles, and proving you right just when you had decided you were wrong. It's a shot of bitter with a chaser of sweet, with the only warmth being derived from the latter and the only strength from the former; we can never taste the sweet until we have downed the bitter. The harsh, clean scent of mint competes with the gagging, cloying smell of perfumed dung - and sometimes we can't tell the difference. ("I love you" has eight letters, but so does "bullshit.")

You can't ever stop trying, even when you've half-talked yourself out. It's sad and beautiful, and like the world spins (just as it ends, it begins), we break our hearts and are summarily made whole.

The music swells to a crescendo that tugs at tear ducts and short circuits the brain. ('Tis no time to think - you must dance!) And it swirls and shimmers with a magick you'd managed to forget, even though it was always, ALWAYS there, waiting for you to use it. We're so powerful that we make ourselves weak.

We have to learn something new every single day, even when it burns like fire and you longingly wish ignorance were truly bliss. (Putting your fingers in your ears and singing doesn't make anything go away.) But we feel every ripple of every action and it makes us change. Sure, you can pretend that every thing's the same, but, as the fault line shifts, you may fall in.

So dance in the flames and breathe in the mint; smile while you cry. The magick is yours to use, arising from that shattered heart in your chest beating itself whole. Life is an exercise in stretching - in order to grow, we must believe we won't break.

A Sad Lesson

If people ever think so pleasantly of you as you think of them, then you should proceed to be extremely, inordinately, even obnoxiously, flattered. Because perceptions rarely almost to the point of never line up so nicely. It is a sad lesson, but one that must be learned. So, think as well of others as you like, but always be prepared to lower your estimations accordingly.

Mint

The pungent scent of freshly massacred mint leaves flooded my nose, giving my indignation a distinct taste.

"What do you think this means, Armand?" I hissed, my voice sliding underneath the sound of the string quartet playing in the more populated portion of the garden. "Are you naive enough to think there are no consequences?"

He eyed me coldly from across the pavilion, his head perched far back on his neck. His arms were iron bars across his chest: cold, hard, and as arrogant as the careful slouch of his tuxedo slacks.

"As ever, you exaggerate," he pronounced with quiet steel. "This was not life-changing; there are no intrinsic 'codes of behavior' that accompany any action. I refuse to allow you to hold me to 'rules' that simply do not exist."

My breath hissed raggedly through my teeth, a small detached part of my mind noting that I'd chosen the right shade of lipstick; if I were to lose control and bite the bastard no one would notice the blood.

"You've nerve. So much, it's a veritable miracle you can't feel!"

One of his eyebrows shot up with a corner of his grim smile.

"No, I definitely feel," he replied. "But nerves are connected to the brain - not to the heart. That's the problem with trying to cage men with lust."

I jerked, and my back met the climbing vines, knocking leaves down my dress with a series of rustles.

Apart from the sardonic twist to his features, he had not moved.

"Someone should teach you a lesson about human beings," I bit out as his form blurred. "You're despicable!"

Even through the tears, I saw his eyes flash.

"And you're pitiable," he rejoined, soft and low, the down-bow of the distant cello adding a perfect punctuation to his phrasing. "You could stand to learn a few lessons yourself, on nature. You're just a girl - you don't know anything about this world you've entered."

Armand's arms fell open for the first time as he took a dangerous step forward.

I pressed back against the greenery as he crossed into my space.

Implacably, he reached out his hand and made me meet his cold blue eyes.

The world went still and all I could hear was the sibilant sound of rustling ball gowns, as somber as the sea.

The corners of his eyes were soft and his lips were no more than a straight line, not pointing up or down. The points where his fingers met my face flashed with fire, although his grip was as gentle as the night we first met.

"Armand," I sighed.

"No," he answered, not breaking our gaze. "I have no obligations to you. You came seeking instant gratification, and that's what you got. Had you been willing to wait..." he shook his head, and his touch dropped away. "I won't lead you on, okay?"

He hovered for just a moment, half-turned, then abruptly spun on his heel and walked away, back to the string quartet and the swirling ball gowns.

I sobbed in the harsh, clean scent of mint.

The Vanity Mirror

She sits at her dressing room table, scorning her image in the mirror. She's beautiful, but she will always believe that she is unworthy for the sun's eyes to rest upon. Nobody knows why - nobody even knows. They all think that 'beautiful' is synonymous with 'confident.'

She reaches out her hand, fingertips meeting the cold glass of the mirror - she wants to break it as she is broken. But she will not. The shards of vanity would tempt her with their bladed edges, and she would falter from living. She can't trust she is worthy of the sun's warming gaze, but that does not mean she wishes to lose that guilty pleasure.

Her eyes find those of her unhallowed reflection. How can this abominable creature be she? The force that grips her vocal cords, warping other's perceptions with her silence, abruptly dies. The sound that is torn from her lips is startling and high, a keening wind of everything she is deluded into 'knowing.' And there, before that dressing room table mirror, she and beauty cry.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

It was foolish to think that anything really changes, and even as I let myself believe, I knew it. (Naivete is a state of mind that is impossible to recover.) Am I just afraid to try too hard? I've always believed that hard work makes all things possible, but I can't help but feel that to work hard here is to lose. But is that really true? Is it worth a shot? (Ah, but if I actually gamble, it means that I cared enough to have something to lose.)

I recognize another in myself and feel contempt. I have eyes - I can see who texts whom first and know exactly what it means. (The game is to lean back and see how far they lean forward.)

I came so close to candor tonight, but we saw each other before we met and quickly turned to go other ways. What good does a close acquaintance do if you never put it to good use?

I managed to be euphoric for an entire three days. It's so completely ridiculous that a boy can make a smile stay. But I am much too rational for romance - a kiss is just a kiss. (Even when you dare to hope it is something more.)

Won contest - this time with poetry!

"The Laws of Physics", another piece that I am exceptionally proud of.

You can find more of my poetry at All Poetry.

Placed in a contest

"Societal Standards" under the pen name Sarah Darling.

Third place. :)

The Cold 'What If'

I feel all the more empty for having been briefly fulfilled. After all those years, it finally happened. I found him. I found him, and it feels as though as the world seems to begin, it ends. (It used to be the other way around.)

I am cold with unshed tears, but I will not touch the blankets. They have no comfort for me - not tonight. Like the moon crossing the sun, he has blotted out every trace of light I could half-way see. Or maybe I'm wrong and he is the sun finally moving from behind the moon. But this sun must not be for me.

Why is this such a struggle? This is what I wanted! The 'what if' I have chased since I first began to wake up! But, as I always knew but didn't want to, the 'what if' cannot be answered. And I really can't bring myself to really wish it could be. (That would only be to invite disaster, as what goes around, comes around.)

I want to burble on about him to anyone who'll listen, but I don't know enough to really have anything to say. Besides, it's a useless urge. ("Have you been eating bowls of rainbows with unicorn marshmallows again?" The one who I never realized is so much like him demands. "That'd be ridiculous.")

Goddess, why now? (Everything happens for a reason.) Why, when nothing can really come of it, when he may as well be galaxies away? Now not even that not-so-faceless lover will be summoned to my back, and I can't quite recall whom I hoped would shatter that silly adverb 'platonically.'

That pale substitute has the nerve to wink at me and I can't work up the courage to be the woman I wrote about. Hasn't the silly boy figured it out yet? I may as well be stamped, "Mormon Anti-Standard." And he may as well be stamped, "That 'what if' can't be answered." (This is one of those rare entries where the pronoun always means the same person.)

I had so much hope. My heart was thundering in my ears, and I forgot that logic ever even had a voice. I couldn't sleep for anticipation of waking up the next morning to see his face. (I think the problem is that logic was never really overruled by anyone else, no matter how close one almost came.)

So I'm empty now. (No, that's not true.) I'm shivering with tears that keep breaking through. (Leave the blanket alone - there's nothing it can do.) I can't even remember the sun I used to know, because all I can see is the far away moon. (And yes - this is what I wanted.)

Introductions

"Gurl, I've gots someone you hafta meet!"

I slowed my hip circle when I heard her, the smile melting slowly off my face. I'd know that slangy, officious voice anywhere, even in this din. Perhaps if I ignored the woman, kept on dancing, she'd go away, and I'd be spared her meddling for the night.

Uh-huh. Maybe once the world ended.

Rather than obliging me, my roommate grabbed my shoulder, her touch stiffening my spine with cold, and spun me around to face her looming visage.

"Serzisly, Carmen! Yuh've gotsta meet this dude! He's perfect sex made incahrnit, and he's curious about YOU!" She grinned wickedly. "He just about swooned on backwards when I told him I could gitz him a face-to-face wit yooh!"

I didn't bother to suppress a groan. She wouldn't hear it over the music anyways.

"ANOTHER fiddler on the roof, Anna?" I shook my head, irritated that she'd interrupted my dancing for this, though aware that she wouldn't be able to see the motion down in the shadows of the crowd. "I'm so not interested in meeting another one of your so-called 'sex-made-incarnates.'"

She tugged impatiently at my arm, already scoping a path through the writhing throng.

"This one's different. He's PUHFECT sex made incarnate. Now, come on!"

It would be easier to just do as she wished, though we must have made a comical sight, me taking three steps to every one of hers. We two have always been utterly mismatched.

"Here my shorty is!" Anna stopped suddenly and my nose met with her second rib with a silent but painful protest. "Carmen Betty, pohtent, provackative, and purrrfect."

I grimaced, massaging my nose. Owww.... I still didn't know who I was being introduced to, but I was fairly sure it didn't really matter. After all, Anna was worse than my parents, always pushing me at someone or something.

"It's nice to meet you," a pleasantly masculine voice rumbled as a hand glided into my field of vision.

I froze, my hand still attempting to comfort abused cartilage.

It was quite a nice hand, actually, with a callused palm and hitchhiker's thumb, the type of hand that makes a girl's body itching-ly curious. It was attached to a bare arm with just the hint of the curves that muscles make. My eyes seemed helpless but to follow those curves up to the shadowed line of a t-shirt, to the swooping hollows of a throat, to a... face.

Woah. That level of public sexiness had to be illegal in at least three states.

"I'm Repens Lantana," he said, smiling at me, wreaking havoc with my internal organs, and then proffering his hand again.

My mouth was doubtless hanging open as my hand drifted down into his grasp. It took strenuous effort to pull myself from the fantasies he was inciting and to bully my lips into forming recognizable words.

"Um... Uh... Do... Do you go to the University?" I managed.

Repens smiled at me again, cocking his head to the side. My mouth went dry and I licked my lips.

"Yes, actually," he replied. "I'm a junior, a biology major." He winked. "I'm also a regular at this club, where I often admire your dancing. You're quite good, you know."

The blood rushed happily to my cheeks, a welcome change from where it had been heading. Repens had noticed my dancing? Repens had thought I was good at dancing?

Oh, God. All heat drained away. He'd noticed my dancing. I didn't think anyone noticed my dancing. I loved to dance - it made me feel sexy, wild, free - but I knew that I danced like a stripper, even though I kept my clothes on. If Repens wanted to meet me based off that, then he probably just wanted in my pants. Oh, I didn't think anyone noticed-

"Hey, don't panic. " His hand slid up my arm to my shoulder, so pleasantly warm, the only thing I could really feel right then, his palm spanning over my right collarbone. "I'm not stalking you or anything like that."

But he had seen my dancing, he had admired my dancing, he had noticed. It was only a matter of time before he told people about me, and then word would spread, and soon everyone would know. They'd whisper about me then, loud and laughing, and I'd be back in high school, my name scribbled in bathroom stalls; "Carmen Betty is a whore," even though I'd never done anything but love to dance, too afraid they were right.

And the next time my parents came to visit, maybe someone would say something to them, or they'd see, and then they would know that I was still the same; I hadn't changed. They'd be ashamed of me again, look at me sadly and condemn me for what I was. Oh, I had told them I had changed!

"Carmen?" Concern now, in Repens's voice, concern for the girl with too many curves and too risqué moves. And she didn't deserve his concern, the filthy tramp, not even a little-itty-teeny-tiny bit, because she'd been imagining what that hand on her shoulder might be able to do in other places. "Are you okay?"

But I wasn't okay, I've NEVER been okay, not since the day I started dancing and found out what I really was.

"It's nice to meet you," I ran out, twisting to get away from him, from the temptation, "but I have to go."

"But, Carmen," Anna protested, "you hasta MEET-"

But I was already moving, running, going somewhere, anywhere, away from the situation, falling in time with the music without thinking, All-American Reject's "Dirty Little Secret."

"These sleeping dogs won't lay, and now I've tried too hard...."

The bathroom. As I dashed through the door, the bartender came out.

"Careful," she cautioned. "The mirror's broken."

It didn't matter. I locked the door behind me and curled over the sink, my tears making the little shards heaped there glisten and seem to cry themselves. Oh, I had to be damned, always a slut and always loving it until I realized it, no matter how I struggled to be respectable, to be someone my parents could approve of. I cried harder as the weight of judgment crushed my stomach and the taste of bile flooded my mouth. It tasted so horrible, so bitter, so natural; like I'd always had that taste there, like I'd always been dancing, like I'd always been lost.

I cried myself out.

When I was done, able to see again, I stared down into the sink. It was clogged with glass trying to slip down into the drain and not quite succeeding, my tears mixing in. Floating bits of mirror winked at me, showing broken reflections of my face, cut off at the jagged edges.

"Carmen!" Anna's voice. "There's still someone you've agotta meet!"

I took a deep breath and let that push me up straight. There was a hold above the sink, slate gray metal, rusting over, empty where the mirror obviously should be. It was a dull, depressing sight, but it seemed to whisper to me, telling me something forbidden.

"Carmen?" Anna again. "Come on!"

I didn't know how she was going to say it to me, but I knew the message, always inconsistent and always the same - always wrong.

And I knew it.

I wasn't the only one who knew it either. The broken images in the sink, trickling away with my tears, knew it was wrong, the rusting empty frame knew it was wrong, the buzzing fluorescent light illuminating it all knew it was wrong.

It was time to stop listening to Anna, because I now stood, exhausted and exalted, face-to-face with whom I had become.