The Turnaround

Words may sting or words may soothe, sticks might bruise or gladly be used, and stones can help or harm you.

(There are two edges to every sword.)

Seduction/Challenge/Fill in the Blank

The young man hesitated, his fingers long around the doorknob.

"There's one thing you should know before you go in to see her," he cautioned, his words slow as he considered the wisdom of this warning. "I like you. You seem..." he searched for a moment. "Completely arrogant, yes, but... maybe you've got something."

I inclined my head in acknowledgement of the compliment, not sure what he was going to tell me, but impatient to get to the task set before me.

He nibbled at his lip, staining it white for a few brief moments before it faded back to a bloody pink.

"She'll do everything she can to shake you," he finally rushed out, his eyes flicking nervously down the hall. "And she's good. She's got toys, outfits, dance routines... but most importantly, she has herself. That's what's gotten all the others killed."

The man sagged then, the words, the warning that he'd been longing to give finally drawn out from the shallows of his conscience.

"Thanks...." I murmured. What he was involved in was madness; I did not blame him for needing to assuage his sense of guilt.

My gaze roamed over him again, and I paused. He wasn't bad looking; a tall, muscular build, emphasized by the de rigeur tuxedo, with curling blond hair and classic features. He held himself strong, and I wondered....

"Why not go for her yourself?"

He shuddered, fingers unconsciously tightening on the doorknob.

"God, no! She's beautiful, but I'm not dumb enough to think I could win at the obscene games she plays. The death she promises for losing..." His eyes clenched closed. "I've seen their bodies," he whispered.

I nodded. He would have seen horrible things in her service, undoubtedly, and that was enough to cheat anyone out of their courage.

Fortunately, I was not in his situation.

"You've done well," I told him, envisioning my victory, "but my body won't be the next you'll see."

I smiled at the door.

"Let's get on with it."

He admitted me to her chambers.

Change in Modus Operandi

Random clips from stories will now be posted alongside the usual poetic ramblings. Be inspired and enjoy.

(NOTE: Everything is copyrighted. Just to remind you.)

Forgotten Biology Homework

That SO figures.

*disgruntled face*

*glareage*

Let's throw daggers, toss down some pills, have a shotgun something, and be done with the whole damned affair.

(It does us no good to continually punish ourselves for things we can't change.)

To Stephen

Fucking catstring theory! That's exactly it.

And, yeah, I lied. I'm angry about what you're doing. Even if I understand why. I'm just so sick of hurting like this, and it's all your fault.

You poor, poor bastard.

Love is much too close to hate.

(Even if I know I'm only afraid and that I don't hate you.)

Shock and Resignation

I guess I finally have something to write on this page after desperately doodling on it all day. Not that I'm happy about it. Not at all, actually.

It's just... She was the last person you would expect this of, but also the first person too.

When I heard, it was brief shock and then resignation. I'm not sure where between those the tears started, but I did cry, and fairly soon.

I'm not sure I even HAVE the right to cry for her. I mean, yeah, I knew her, went to middle school with her, laughed with her from time to time. But I didn't KNOW her at all. Just enough to know she seemed to be perpetually happy, and that she was nice to me when other people weren't.

What could be so bad that she'd not just want to die, but actually take matters into her own hands? I know that's what people always ask, but I really want to know. I've walked that edge before, been just about to let go, but I've always had the hope to keep on living, to get better. What could make a girl who seemed as cheerful as she did stop hoping?

I don't understand.

I mean, I really just can't wrap my mind around it. How could she just be... gone? How could that bubbly blonde just be cold and still? I can't quite accept it. She can't be... dead.

There, I said it. She's dead. She killed herself.

I don't know how she did it and I'm not sure I want to know.

What Jaclyn must be going through....

What her step-sister must be going through....

I don't even want to think about her parents.

I remember between seventh and eighth grade, she went from being a little toward the plump side to being a complete stick. She seemed to become popular overnight. I always sorta wondered what changed, but didn't really think about it. I didn't let myself think it was an eating disorder, or that people really were so shallow as to ignore one of the nicest girls in the school because of her weight. I still don't really let myself think about it.

Is that what's going to happen to me? To Zach? To Charmee? To Stephanie? To Angie? To Kyle? To Briona? Are anyone of us going to fall down so far that we'll start thinking we'll never see the light again and just stop looking for it? Are we going to kill ourselves too, and seem happy to the casual eye all the way up until then?

She was the last person you'd expect it of, but also the first person, too.

Oh, Casey... Could no one save you?

Untitled in Apathy

I really want to go curl up in a corner and die. I'm pushing everyone away, loving and loathing every little touch. I should move, dance, distract myself from this insidious melancholy. (Why did I leave my romance novel at home?)

And there's no real reason for it, but for a lack of salvation. I could help him if I didn't love him, because then I could be detached enough to ponder it on through in all its multi-colored possibilities. But I love him, and my love is not enough to save him.

It's not enough to save myself, either. I'm bubbling in a sea of confusion, and confusion leads to apathy leads to depression. Whatever. I don't care. (Transition one: check.)

I don't even care enough to finish writing this.

People Are Stupid

The above is an epiphany brought on by company too invested in an outcome and a party far from dispassionate, eager to coax a volley of Romantic sentiments from a cynic's pursed lips. I am referring, of course, to a GUY. (Bet to HELL you didn't see that one coming.) I mean, what right does he have to come around me, unsolicited, to re-incite such confusion among my affairs? (Keywords: reincite, affairs.)

"What are we to each other?" he asks me, so earnest and perplexed. "Why have you done this, this, and that?" OMG, I don't KNOW! That's why I'm avoiding addressing the issue! (Because that solves every problem.) Do like the rest of society - push it under the rug, burn it, hope it goes away! Just don't wave it in my face and make me deal with it! God!

I don't like the hypocrisy of his arms as he claims that he'll never bind me as his. He makes such fanfare about how chivalrous he is in refraining from kissing me as he exaggerates the issue, but speaks and acts without respect. (Maybe he's "kind" in not meshing our lips, but what the fuck is his arm doing around my waist?)

He entreats me to trust my situation to one who knows nothing about it. (Namely: him.) He is so hellbent on protecting me from myself, that he will not listen to the victim's testimony. (After all, she's in shock - how could this one witness understand what she's endured?)

This entire soliloquy is just another way of avoiding the larger issue. I so want to deny the problem merely because the topic was brought up by one who only vaguely grasps at its currents and whose motives are dubious (at best).

*sigh*

People are stupid.

Free Write 10/16/08

It's alright, it's okay - we shall live to dance another day. Don't call me young and don't call me vulgar - there's a splash of moonlight for your tastes. I want someone to be mad at, but it all makes too much sense, so I'll just sit here and rage at myself. (No wonder I have the occasional bout of intense self-loathing.) I want to work on symbolism, take my story from entertainment to literature. I don't want to be just another name to be forgotten. I found my inspiration in a list of authors and titles that should be known. I'm going to try and do it all and I'm not sure I'll succeed, but why ever not? Living in my mind is not so awful as one would think. I like the solid ring that resonates in my head. Rubies and garnets are not without significance. Can you read me this and understand my gist? Just recall that I'm constantly improving. Maybe I'm a poser, but I firmly believe that I don't think so. I'm raring for work, but not responsibility. As soon as I get my license, I'm down on 21 at eighty miles per hour. If nothing else, I will enjoy myself.

I'm confused about love and I don't know what to say, except that I remember what happened the last time I felt this way. I don't want that this time around. I understand where she's coming from, 'cause I been there myself, and I can only pray that she'll play it smarter than I ever thought to. He's kind of cruel to dally this way, because deep down, all three of them know better than this high school drama scene. But maybe not. I hear the World is just the same. I'll prevaricate and call it human nature. But, still. Don't get your hopes up, Breezy, don't entrust your heart to his skillfully clumsy hands. He'll put Tamora's face on you at every turn and it will lodge in your stomach and hurt like flame. Tu ne joues pas au basket. And, Tamora. I told you not to make the same mistakes that I made with John and failed to mention that getting back together with him was one of them. My bad. But don't do this to Alex, I beg you. He's trying to rebound and move on, so let him. And, you, you too, Alex! Please stop playing pretty and show your hand in your heart. We're not dumb, but nor are we all powerful. Though this is your social position at the moment, please don't be a tyrant and crush all your circling wolves at will. I know the power is heady, but cruelty cannot be justified by that sensation. A solid block of writing marches down the page, confusing and unorganized, but I just can't restrict to one topic today. I'm a sea of contemplatias, happening all at once and I'm trying to convey these processes, but there's so much going on. I'm a miasma of stifled rage and virulent hope (go bacteriophages!) and I only want it to work out. I want a diamond perspective on everything in life, a cleansing of arsenic, to put it matter of fact blunt. I'm mixing adjectives for nouns, trying to be original but only managing odd, maybe bombastic. I've always seemed pretentious, with an obsession to control and detail. And there it is. I said it myself. "Control freaks are the ones most often helpless." And I can't wave a magick wand and make this entire situation disappear and be forgotten. Cause I don't think Breezy can really trust you now, Alex, you were so ready to turn back time. And I intervened once or twice before, if you'll recall. I didn't know you so well then; I only knew Tamora. But I was so sure that you were the best thing for her at the time. She was in love and I could see something similar in your eyes. I knew even then that it would end like this, though I ignored myself and hoped that life would surprise me. How bitter... No such luck in that arena. Tamora and I, we are so much the same in so many ways, though not interchangeable parts in the same machine. And she made my same mistake(s). And maybe I'm in the process of committing those same mistakes once again. I am nothing if not honest in my hypocrisy. Breezy and Alex will end, too. I don't know when and I don't know how, but I see it in their future. (Why are people so predictable?) And I can predict everything but myself. Or, rather, I can predict myself, but I'm too scared that I'll be right. My pathways are just as obvious as that of everyone else, but for the way I obscure my vision. It's rather sad, but it explains a lot. I'd rather be self-aware, but that does not amount to safe over sorry. I won't go so far as the other way around, but I could see it without squinting. There are so many stories and so many facets to a side. Crystalline may be clear, but it is complicated. How does one choose where to look through? (It's that ethics BS coming back to haunt me soundly.) I can see what he is thinking and I am debating how much I care. I've bound myself to him in a few soft swoops and I don't know if it is healthy. I've got to deal with all of this, so censorship would be counter-productive. I must treat this as I would any other. My wrist is beginning to cramp with the ferocity and velocity of my word flow. And I'm just getting started. There's this vomit of consciousness staining my notebook and I'm not entirely sure it's in the business of making sense. I'll write until I'm stopped, then volunteer to stop someone else. Do I really want to work so closely with the Bat? I'm volunteering myself for such prestige, though I know it spells frustration. But why not? Anything for that perfect college application. Don't harangue me with these constant reminders that I've got the world at my fingertips, because I want it in my fist. There may be no such thing as perfect, but my ambition won't believe it. And part of it is competition. I can't stand to come in anything but first, and I see backs in my field of vision. It's a dangerous compbination - apathy and ambition. I'll kill myself with the pressure to overachieve. And I don't care. I'll raise myself a race of people just as drunk on success as I am. And there's the bell. Vomit of consciousness ended.

Flashing Fang

Go ahead and call me out, take me down, pin me to the carpet for all to look down on, and I'll smile. I'll smile with fangs and an evil intent, and that'll be that. You'll have gotten your wish - I'll be devoid of all emotions, I'll have given up all attempts at giving, and I'll turn to stone. It's all you need - for me to be even colder and less caring than I've ever been before, and it's already a well known rumor that where my heart should be, there's a hole. Go ahead - call me out.

Make me the epitome of all that shocks and disgusts, and do it with a grim 'for-the-better' visage. I'm all too familiar with your brand of concern - I call it 'persecution'. Tie my hands behind my back and toss me in the river for a trial. There's only guilt to be gathered from where you stand, and I can't show you innocence. So go on - flog me like the well-chosen scapegoat I am.

And when I'm back to being your favorite Southern arctic bitch, you can smile and vaguely wonder what might have changed. I won't tell you that - I won't tell you anything then, except with an icy contempt that shows how little this life was worth it. So shrug and glance away, just happy that I'm no longer the same - never mind that the change wasn't for the better. I'm down on the carpet, pinned for everyone to look down on, and you can see my fangs with my smile. (Hey, why should I bother to give a care for my damnation?)