I couldn't sleep with her next to me. i was half scared that she would just disapear, it had been so long since we had been here like this and I could hardly beleive it was real. I just wanted to watch her, soak in every last detail of this moment I knew couldn't last.
I wanted to remember how her hair fanned on the pillow. Some might liken it to a halo, but to me it seemed more like a lion's mane. I wanted to remember how she smelt, how her chest gently rose and fall as she slept,...
The idea is to create a false memory. Get a pretty model, blur the edges, overexpose the film. You can also create that overexposure effect digitally. Have her smiling, playing. Give her something that evokes childhood. Red balloon. No, we don't want to be cliche. Green balloon. And make sure there's an overriding color scheme. Green. We don't see a background - nothing but light on the horizon. This is memory, and memory is supposed to consist of overreliance on symbols, strong images, single focal points. That was the summer when...
We hire the model. She's angry and unhappy the...
"Do you know how much you're paying to be there?"
Of course she knew, looking at her shoes. They were pretty shoes - very nice ones. She was glad she'd worn them. Something good to look at, a pattern to lose herself in as she tried to drown out the sound of her parents raging at her.
About university, this time, but really it could be anything. Insert subject here, and they would rant.
Lots of spirals on these shoes. Lots of colours, too -
Oh. They were looking at her. Expecting a response.
"Yes."
It seemed to be the...
I retire to a grotto chiseled in a gnarled knot of stone on the continent's edge. The continent is irrelevant. And the stone and grotto, for that matter. Because when the ocean rises, no one moans but me. And the universe is nothing if not a bell for suffering. Ding dong, ding dong.
She slept in the open air, in the windy hills, on a soft pillow. She was covered in the blankets of her mother's mother. She sang God's songs. When she played music, her hands made the strings talk and her voice accompanied. From atop her hill no one could hear her. The would hear her one day. She spoke God's words. When finally she slept, she would always dream. New songs would be woven in her head, on that soft pillow. Her message was the word of God and when she came down off this mountain she would save her...
She'd have preferred The Electric Chair to be the name of the band. But she was out voted by the drummer and the bassist who wanted The Hanged Man.
What, did they want to give the impression that they were unable to spell? She had asked on numerous occasions. But none have them had understood what she was saying.
Well, the guitarist had, but Jeff had wanted the band to be called The Rainbow Rogues so he didn't really count.
They had been a band for about six months and had yet to unanimously agree on anything.
They hadn't been...
The wise woman quietly opened the door, like a portal to the Other World, where a young woman's fist was held up as if to knock. Whether it was caught by her speed or its own hesitation, Meg wasn't sure.
"Expected was I?" a sweet voice entered the room.
The crone shrugged. "Bess is it?" At least it was mortal kin.
"We both know you would be here one way or another. One day or another."
"Do I have thy leave to enter, Elder One?" the spoken song continued. Sweet insolence lost on the witnesses.
"Do YOU not THOU me!"...
He ducks out of my way and a flash of white pain shoots up my arm. I look up and see the cracks in the wall left from the impact of my fist. I ball and unball my fist a few times and try to push the pain out of my mind. A sharp cry comes from somewhere and I think it might be my own voice. I lift a hand to my head and my fingers come away bright red. When did I hit my head? I push myself up from the floor and try to ignore the black...
The waitress came up and said "Hey, want corn flakes?"
"No," says I. I am busy reading my book, which is about masking tape.
But the waitress is having none of it. "I made these corn flakes myself," she says.
"Okay," says I. "Give me some corn flakes."
She gives them to me. They are red, not orange, but I eat 'em anyway. "Yuck," says I. "These don't taste like corn flakes at all."
"They're not," she says. "They're scabs I picked off my elbow."
She shows me her elbow, which is bleeding lots. All kinds of blood is pouring...
I jumped.
Then I found mysef flying.
Yellow street lamps weaved below me.
They said that yellow represented caalm and the ability to fly signified that I was rising above my problems.
But what do they know?
Their 'experience' came from reading books. Mine came from real life, from living with the monsters in my head. Dark, shapeless freaks clawing at the psyche, dripping poison into every cell and stem, clawing relentlessly at my skull.
I tried to cut them out, I tried to drink them t sleep but they wouldn't stay quiet for long.
Therapy! What a joke. Seeing...