3 Friends (1)

Based on a dream that I thought was pretty damned epic.

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Jack was late. He wasn't late in the sense that he'd be meandering in with the other guys who'd missed the 7:30 bus into town. He was late in the way that birds freeze to death in the winter, lost among snowy trees. He'd missed several buses. Missed them, because he wasn't sure if he should go in to work today, or ever. Ever since the thing happened.

He didn't even want to think about it, much less look into those cobalt blue eyes. The eyes of his best friend. Well, one of his two best friends. He admitted to himself that they were probably better best friends with each other, and while that used to give him some pang of remorse, the idea that perhaps he was even the slightest bit further away from the people in question was a blessing.

Yesterday, his best friend (cobalt blue) pushed a man out the window. The man fell seven stories and came to a halt inside the back seat of a taxi cab. The second man, the one doing the more active, traveling portion of this tale, was his other best friend, Mike.

How was it that, even after all they'd been through, he could say Mike's name, but not... his?

The week before, he could've said both of their names, no problem. He could've shouted them from the rooftops, the two young men drunkenly jeering him on, as he had done once or twice (or more, he couldn't remember).

Maybe the introduction of fleece was when it had started going downhill. Or maybe it was the... predicament. Or even earlier, when they first took these goddamned jobs. His ex-girlfriend was right, you never really knew someone until you worked with them. As for Jack, he was content to run rounds on the second floor. He copied things, wrote reports, wrote summaries of reports, wrote memos about summaries of reports. He liked his job okay, because it paid for his okay dates with girls who weren't his ex, and it gave him a roof over his head. Life was good.

Ty (there, he said it), who started off on the second floor, before he got the job on the third floor and was then bumped up to the seventh floor where he pushed Mike out the window, wasn't so satisfied. He rubbed elbows. Licked shoes. Did things he wouldn't talk about unless he was drunk, and then everyone wished he would shut up about it. He got promoted, and then promoted again, and again, until he was almost where he wanted to be.

Mike was the weird one. Like Jack, he was satisfied with life. He was happy. Life was good. He was happy writing memos. He was happy when he got promoted to the third floor, keeping track of statistics. He was happy when he got promoted again to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh floors, and he would've been perfectly happy on the eighth floor, which was where his new office would've been today, if Ty hadn't pushed him out the window.

To recap:
Jack was a satisfied nobody.
Ty worked hard and kissed ass for his seventh floor job.
And Mike was a genius.

If it wasn't apparent in grade school, or high school, or college, it was sure as hell apparent now. There was something about Mike that people just -liked-. He had a calm, cool demeanor that came from simply not giving a single shit, and people liked that. Even Ty, usually. Especially Ty.

Ty didn't push Mike out of the window because of the promotion. At least, he said he didn't. Before yesterday, Jack would've believed him. Before yesterday, Ty had never pushed anyone out a window.

Of course, a week ago, Jack wouldn't have believed that people had built-in force fields, either. But, apparently, they did.

and never look back

Two square meals; four square walls.
“Maybe tomorrow” never comes--
Acceptance drowning in pools of amber.


Unheard
Through an open door.
Heavy in my palms,
Fingers filled to bursting with their own rhythm.


So light, so dark when the sky becomes an ocean.


(RIP 05/31/2012)

Collision

It isn't enough, but... ♥

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Immeasurable steps through red sands as soft as slowly passing time. The rocks beneath show in places, and shoot skyward in places, but their harsh black skin is always welcome. These jutting outcrops are familiar. They’re home.

Even the wind, which whips up so hard sometimes that it flays open miles of sharp black stone, is expected in this place. His feet leave footprints that the wind washes away. There is no future, no past, except the history he holds inside himself. The history that writes itself upon his face and digs deep scars across his quills.

A smooth black stone beacons to him, and he perches on it for a moment, resting his sore feet. A gust of wind steals one of his plumes, whipping it from his shoulder, and sends it cascading off into the nearby cliffs. Such a small mark upon the world… What use could anyone have for a quill?

The Fog

The knowledge came rolling around him, a fog of hushed tones and shadowed whispers. If the sun had set, he did not see it. He rarely saw anything nowadays, and noticed even less. Rarely saw, until the fog crept in, slow and wet and cold, soaking into his fur until his bones rattled to their whispers. Only then did he crack open an eye and wonder where the sun had gone. Wonder, because even though his sleep-sensitive eyes were blinded by light, he felt chilled. The chill urged him to his feet, lest the cold steal his legs away, and sent him moving.

His eyes caught important things. Rocks that would catch his hooves. Bright colors and movement that signaled a body (…body?) to be avoided. All should be avoided. He wanted nothing, and no one. No one, because somehow, as he sank into the role of contender in this place, something new began to form inside him. A thought. A memory. Smiles that weren’t theirs. Lips that weren’t hers, but she brought them. And with them, the lips, the smiles, came… something. Something else. A knot in his stomach. A knot that writhed when he stood against foes, and twisted when he brushed against her side.

If I'm gonna do a long ride...

A long ride on horseback, that is. I'm absolutely in love with the idea.

But I guess I should make a list of stuff I need to find out.

- Where would I sleep?
- Where would I eat?
- Where would I find food and water for my horse?
- Do campsites allow horses?
- Would I be able to carry a pistol?
- Would I be able to sell drawings/paintings along the way?

Remember:
- Superfast pseudo-horseshoes

Sites of value:
- http://www.thelongridersguild.com
- http://www.discoverytrail.org/
- http://horsemotel.com/
- http://www.horseandmuletrails.com/

14. Smile

Lips drawn tight to frame dry teeth, muscles aching. The smile that never quits. The laugh that makes your stomach sore. Too much of a good thing. The recoil is pain, exhaustion, unhappiness. Our minds and bodies attempt to correct the imbalance. The rubber band stretched to one side, snapping back in a moment of indecision. Where all the pleasant thoughts from the moment earlier come crashing in on themselves, crashing in on you. There is no such thing as true happiness, because the mind can't handle the strain. Can't handle the imbalance.

The holes around you, inside you, below you, above you. The puncture wounds I punch to ease my imbalance. The casualties of my inability to be truly, unquestioningly happy. Because if you are imperfect, then the rubber band around my soul stays just lax enough to keep from snapping. If I can break apart, then the scales won't ever tip. The muscles in my face will ease, my stomach will heal. And over time, I'll be able to fall into this stretched happiness once again.

13. Misfortune

They were dragged one by one from the house. One by one, lined up against the front porch, chests bowed down across their knees, sweat dripping from their noses, hands bound behind their backs. None of them sullied their pride by begging or asking why. If there was a why, they would know soon enough. Black eyes studied the dirt, blocking out fear and panic with years of experience. But he could smell it in the air, thick and vile, just like the Colonel’s cologne. Didn’t even have to look up to know who their attacker was. Thankfully, the Colonel’s face was more widely recognized than his own. They didn’t yet know what they had caught. Perhaps it could stay that way. He prayed that it would stay that way.

“I expected more from the lot of you,” the Colonel chuckled, pacing the ground in front of them, scratching at the hem of his pants absently. He didn’t want to be there. This was a low-grade mission. Hopefully, it would make him cocky.

12. Insanity

“I’m going to count to ten,” he said, voice smooth as polished silver. Silver-coated words so carefully spoken that no one would ever hear the bite beneath them. Two eyes behind him, watching Ian speak to the girl, carried a look of pained concern. They wanted to make sure he wouldn’t say anything too harsh. Do anything too harsh. “Just ten, and then I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait just a minute,” James said quickly, stepping forward, but Ian had already begun to count, and one firm hand on James’ chest, my hand, stopped him in his tracks. I shook my head very slightly, and James searched my face. No worries, said my expression. He would never do such a thing. And James, soft, sweet James, set his jaw, turning his gaze once again to where Ian knelt before the girl. Believing me. I knew from her file that she was nineteen. Her birthday was in a week.

The Second Session

The closest I ever get is warmth. Body warmth. Some people reach out with warm fingers, warm bodies, warm kisses… but my fingers stay clenched by my sides, and I reach out with my warmth. Sometimes, I pretend that, as we sit close together, our warmth intermingles, wrapping us in a cocoon of everything I feel for you. I pretend, because otherwise, I have to face the knowledge that I’ll never be truly close to you. That I’ll never feel your hand against my face, your lips against mine. We both know that such contact would be agony, my ears burning with the screams of the dead.

The man who sits across from me sits like a woman, his legs crossed at the knee as he leans back in his plush chair, jotting down notes. He looks through small, black-rimmed glasses down a long, rather large nose. His voice is a dark purr, however. Definitely masculine. Somehow, this mixture makes me feel more comfortable. I wonder if that’s the reason I chose him.

I suck at inspiring

I always feel the need to tell budding artists, budding writers, to keep trying. To keep working, as if someday, what they do will be worth it. Will be worth the efforts they’re taking currently. As if the goal is the outcome. As if the practice is unimportant, except in reaching that final phase.

As if the goal weren’t the creation of something unique and beautiful that, although flawed, contains a piece of the artist’s creativity and passion and skills. As if the practice itself weren’t the goal. I guess this is why I hate it when people throw things away. I value everything, even the sketches I’ve hated so much that I drew thick, dark X’s on top.

So when I’m telling people to keep going, to keep drawing, when I’m trying to plant some deep-seeded desire to get to the end of their artistic journey, what I’d rather be saying is, “This, right here, is beautiful. What you’ve done is beautiful. Sure, the eyes are a little off, and that mouth could use some work, but really, I love it just the way it is.”

The few times I’ve tried this, however, the people began spewing self-depreciating remarks, and I end up with a handful of people who, for that moment, carry no desire to continue.

So I don’t say that anymore.

I say, “This is already really good, and practice makes perfect. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”

Which certainly isn't bad, but it's far from the message I'd rather deliver.