On Losing Control

For all that's real does not glisten in the light, but resides in the darker places where it slithers and slides. (You silly person - how do you even know this is right?)

Why do you manufacture memories, sit back and watch your hormones take over? Life is lived on a subconscious level - all you have to do is take notice.

Okay, Mademoiselle Meaningless. You know what it all signifies. It doesn't have to make sense now - take the spiral staircase, and someday you'll see it all.

Puzzling

I think of all the ways in which things connect - the past, the present, all the little ironies between circumstance and expectation. How could we have known it would be this way, even as we knew all along? Despite all the possibilities, this is the only way it could be.

My ankle hurts for a reason, a rebel against the runes that mark it for some cause, however obscure. What does it all mean, the seven of cups and the eyes I draw and the way I can't stop thinking about him, however much I long to? There are answers, but they require more puzzle pieces than I can hold at once. They connect in small ways I can't yet see, am yet incapable of consciously perceiving. (So much of substance lays beneath the surface.)

I want to figure things out, think it through and find the answers. (I am almost certain of the plural.) Perhaps that is the problem. Too much information overwhelms. Draw a line at the end of the sentence - start from there. But I've long since lost track of where the paragraph breaks. (An excuse - as long as I start somewhere, the pieces will click into place.)

I always said that I had little use for a prince, but a knight in well-worn armor was dandy in my view. This one certainly has a sword, but can I call him a knight? Chivalry is dead in him, that's for sure. He validates my cynicism at every turn and I want to be surprised, I am astonished to learn. Title him "THE" and all the girls know whom you mean. I pray this fascination with him is merely ennui.

Perhaps if I ask about the past, there will be a reply. Perhaps not an answer - nothing so satisfying as that - but maybe a clue, another puzzle piece. (It probably won't fit.) But it would be something - a key that could maybe make the latch click (locking or unlocking, I'm not sure).

But everything means something; everything connects. My ankle is still hurting and I still can't stop thinking about him and that question still rings away. Do you know what I dream about? (I can't quite remember....)

Empty Field Myopia

I am young, but far from naive. I lost my innocence long ago, though I like to think my virtue will always be intact.

I dream about having someone beyond the countless males I wear about the curves of my ears. I ask, "who am I?" but mean, "who is he?" It is a solved mystery that I want a more immediate answer to, though I know there is little satisfaction in instant gratification.

So I state the facts and have the fantasy, knowing it is all talk and no walk (much to their frustration).

But all the same, my lack of innocence and want of naivete call for more than I allow myself. My bed feels a little too big with just me in it and my flirtations a tad pointless without a goal. (Purposeless flirting feels directionless, if you can imagine that.) My pointed foot perpetually indicates blank space, a physical empty field myopia.

That's the contradiction and conflict-ion you see. There is nothing there, but my youth insists on fixing on it, only aware that I must one day see.

Third Place in Contest; Nice Review

I can't seem to break the third place string, but they're nice, nevertheless.

This one was for "To Andrew."

The review:

"In contrast to the darker preceding pieces, Henderson's thoughtful 'To Andrew' offers a downright lighthearted perspective on love and identity. Diligent readers of the weekly competition will note the reference to Henderson's 'Nobody - Nobody Special,' a piece that won 2nd place the week of June 22, 2010. Readers who take a particularly philosophical approach to life will appreciate the conclusion of 'To Andrew' most, but all writers should take heed: Henderson practices textbook rising/falling action, the imitation of which would behoove any new or young author."

The next piece I plan to enter is almost done. I really think it's first place material, and (if I dare say...) a masterpiece of short fiction.

Restless

You've always known better. Always.

From the moment he asked you to dance, darkened eyes raking up your illuminated body, you knew all that was to come.

Discovery. A breath in your ear, inhale and exhale to who you really are. You love him and you detest him, want him to be better, momentarily think he is, but know he never will be.

Exhilaration and boredom, constantly aware that swords and pentacles are only two points out of five. Completion does not live here.

She is a hard woman, but she likes to dance at parties, and he can't decide if he's a knight or a king, still in process or complete. He's deception and dependability, made of marble and of mirrors. Is he stagnation or change, or change in stagnation, or stagnation in change? (No matter how I lay the cards, it just won't come clear.)

He speaks literature like a writer, though he refuses to read, and flirts like he's in his cups, though he indulges "only at parties." I can't decide what to do with this fellow, any more than he can decide what to do with me. (I guess, restless, it's all about the journey.)

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.