Hello no one. Missed November. I'm terrible at self-commitment, I suppose. Oh well. Take a gander. A brief piece.
Flicker of the candle
Flicker on the mirror
Sparkle of the eyes
Sparkle on the blade
Reflection of the glass
Reflection on the metal
Eternal peril of the moment
Eternal peril on the mind
Power of the self defeated
Power on the heads
Blood of the martyr
Blood on their own hands.
Vox Mente
I'm an experimental writer. I get frustrated when compositions stay buried in notebooks, their words blurred by time and pencil smudges. So i'll come here, and post whatever fiction, prose, or poetry decides to visit. Some feedback would be nice also. That's all folks.
Tuesday, December 04, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Perfection of Evil
Hey there, invisible folks.
So this is a piece that I wrote once again, a year and a half ago. Reading it over again, I'm not terribly fond of it. However I do like the concept - but i'm more so posting it here and now because - due to school - I missed posting a piece for September, and I am about to miss October. I do have pieces on the go, but i have yet to perfect them to "publishable" form. Ugh - yes, i consider this lonely hole in the internet to be my publishing centre. So help me. And
Happy Halloween ;)
The skies were grey that day, an occurrence that, since the purge of the
last distortion, had become rare. I suppose we should have realized, taken that
dismal atmosphere as a sign of what that day would mark.
Lizzie was always
the complicated one, always making the daily rituals such a bothersome event.
It was like there was a different flare to her, one that if provoked had the
capacity to scream out in rebellion. However one could never imagine why – we
are free here in our state, under our state.
I believe Lizzie had
been in school with the rest when the one that was called “Sophia” came into
the community. The radiance of her outward beauty glowed especially bright in
the dull and grey landscape. With that stunning smile, perfect shape, and voice
as smooth as glass, it was not unusual that Sophia was instantly integrated into
the state’s system. There is no doubt that she is perfect.
Upon completing the
assimilation procedures, I can recall Sophia being placed in the Eye district. I spoke to her there once
while paying the respects to the state head. She had stood in front of me as
the Beckoning Music played throughout the community. She had chosen to speak to
me, and I fumbled for an intelligent answer as she squinted her eyes in the
sunlight and leaned away from the reflective glint of the window. She is
perfect, her very being somehow seeming
to climb above that of the others. She is kind to all the right people, and
draws in all her peers with her overpowering essence of popularity and long
flowing locks. The state soon appointed her female representative – thus
dictating her as the ultimate image. It wasn’t long before she found her
faithful followers; every young citizen in the city strives to imitate her
perfection. I know I do. But to be fair, when I say all, I mean all except one.
I remember the bitterness and suspicion that would strangle
Lizzie every time Sophia entered the room or the conversation. Citizens soon started to notice Lizzie’s difference and subtle resistance to
the way of things. Unlike her peers she veered away from Sophia and her
standard, and she started to reek of imperfection - even defiance and deceit.
It seemed she sensed something peculiar about Sophia, and it seemed she would
stop at nothing to find out what it was.
The memory itself I feel to be repressed, but in the
shelter of this story now, and for the sake of discoursing history, I believe
the state would allow my digression. Lizzie, that divergent, had not been compiling
with the state’s order; it seemed she wanted to be as distant from Sophia’s
perfection as possible. The state could not have that, allowing even the
slightest hint of rebellion from the ideal would result in the pollution of our
perfect structure of humanity. As would be assumed, her attempts to resist the
Sophia image and lifestyle soon made her appear grotesquely deviant. The
communal spirit of peace that domineered the citizens was obviously fleeing
Lizzie’state, as new and foreign emotions such as anxiousness and paranoia emanated
from her like a toxic mist.
I had watched
her follow Sophia home that day; how foolish of me to think that it would amount to nothing. Clearly Lizzie was merely trying to find the
source of Sophia’s perfection, but what she saw instead is what I think drove
her to her absolute mania. She had watched through the window as Sophia had
entered her bedroom and hurried over to the community-standard dresser to
replace the white sheet that had fallen off its mirror and onto the floor. As
Sophia had stood in front of the mirror, shaking out the crumpled fallen sheet
while her skin gleamed in the light, the breath caught in Lizzie’s throat.
The colour drained from her face as it watched the mirror’s reflection. Course,
black and glistening fur now encloaked the bulking figure in the mirror. Huge
hooked and merciless claws hung from the beast’s paws, and fangs like that of a
cobra glistened in its mouth as slick murky venom leaked from its jaw. And oh
but the eyes; blood red rubies that glowed with an enrapturing capability that
was no doubt the source of the creature’s hypnotic popularity. The horrid
reflection in the mirror was swept away from sight as the sheet draped over the
mirror once again, and Lizzie altered her terrified gaze off the mirror and on
to Sophia. Radiance once again filled the room. But Lizzie’s breathing must have
regained itself a gasp too loudly, as Sophia’s head jerked around with inhuman
speed towards Lizzie’s presence. Their eyes had locked, and Lizzie’s horror
stricken face quivered and teared as a red smoke began to plume from behind
Sophia’s sparkling ice blue eyes and a forked tongue escaped through her teeth.
With that Lizzie was running, running blind as foggy tears soaked her face with
salt and terror.
I suppose she was hysterical when she tried to tell
everyone, I suppose her eyes lacked more life than they had before. All I know
for certain is they didn’t listen. There was no way the city could
allow such lunacy.
I had liked Lizzie. It used to feel like she had the
ability to cleanse the room of its stale air, but I suppose now, I could not
gather the difference.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Paranoia.
Happy news every-no-one! I'm actually re-discovering my passion for writing, and for fiction nonetheless. Here's something I started and finished today. At this point in my travels, this is excellent progress. Pitiful that I've come to the point to say that, but still, relative excellent progress. Striving to improve, take care,
Paranoia.
She had become great friends with Paranoia. He accompanied her almost everywhere, but became especially talkative when walking hand in hand with the dark. This evening had been no different than the rest of those blackened November nights, save for the heavy silence that hung over the streets and weighed down the trees.
Paranoia.
She had become great friends with Paranoia. He accompanied her almost everywhere, but became especially talkative when walking hand in hand with the dark. This evening had been no different than the rest of those blackened November nights, save for the heavy silence that hung over the streets and weighed down the trees.
Paranoia was waiting for her at the end of her shift. Tonight, he leaned against the dumpster that she fed sticky boxes and cigarette butts all day long. She hurried past him, hoping he wouldn't see her and she could forget about him for just this one night. It had been a good day; she had even let a boy catch her attention. Her eyes brightened as she remembered his smile and the way he laughed as he dropped the coffee she had poured for him. She wondered if he would come into the cafe again.
But Paranoia decided to interrupt before she could think of how to offer her name. She jumped as Paranoia exaggerated the sound of a cough that echoed off the porch of a house. She drew her eyebrows together and took longer strides.
This ritual was always the same, but tonight she was determined not to let Paranoia dance around her feet. She had to take control.
A street lamp flickered above her as she turned off the main road and forced herself to take deep breaths and slow down her pace.
Silence and Paranoia chatted in harmony of the abandoned streets. They hollered at her that the town was draped in silence, save for the muffled car engine that was approaching her from behind.
She ignored Paranoia when he told her to turn and look at the car. As the car passed, she instead told herself that she should feel nothing but comforted, since the car was a pricey looking silver BMW. She couldn't help but wince, however, when Paranoia pointed out that the car turned down the street that would bring her to her home.
She soon reached the corner and was relieved that the moving car was nowhere in sight. Paranoia grabbed her shoulder as she passed underneath a low hanging branch, but after stifling a gasp she was able to contain herself with much greater ease than previous nights. She felt confident, but protected her courage by keeping her eyes focused on the simplicity of the ground in front of her.
She didn't hear Paranoia when he told her of the car approaching behind her. Instead she heard what she would say the next day as she introduced herself to that boy with the smile, and the laugh..
"My name is..."
Her words slammed dead into the inside of her forehead and dropped like rocks to her stomach as she watched a silver BMW roll slowly past her moderate pace. The sound of the tires sliding over the damp asphalt pierced the silence of the night as Paranoia held a flare in front of her face.
She told herself not to look into the windows that Paranoia told her were tinted, and instead kept her stare facing the cracks in the pavement. She shivered as the car finally seemed to leave her in the distance.
Paranoia asked her why the same car had passed her twice, and in his alarm did not hear her explanations.
But it was then, as she lifted her head on que and watched the BMW slowly park within the darkness between the street lamps in front of her that Paranoia let out a screech.
Her instinctively accelerated pace gave her no time to reason with Paranoia; her eyes bulged and watered as she saw the lonesome figure, leaning against a silver BMW. Paranoia screamed in her face, tugged on her heel and begged her to turn and run, but a new voice had entered the scene.
Terror now paralyzed her thoughts as adrenaline kicked her pace into overdrive and she sped towards the presence.
Saltwater leaked from her bulging eyes and her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw began to ache. Terror's
inhuman moans distorted
the panicked commands of Paranoia, and the voices in her head blurred
to a chorus of mania.
As her body became parallel to the pricey looking, silver BMW, the
mania swelled to
a blinding volume.
Paranoia writhed in sorrow and dropped his flare, igniting the
chaos in flame.
She could no longer hear her own scream as cold hands approached
and
seized her by the elbows.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
talk talk talk
Hi again, No one!
Anyone out there? Never mind, I can just sit here, assuming that this blog is reaching somebody as I feel productive like an accomplished writer.
What an entertaining thought, "productivity"...Here on planet Canada, it's summer time. Apparently this means I have no energy. Whatsoever, at any time, ever. I am a blob of blonde goo wilting off of a decomposing log into a puddle, deep within a Scandinavian forest that no one will ever bother to discover.
Deep eh?
You're probably looking at your computer screen while sneering and thinking, "ew, bitch thinks she's funny or some shit."
Just read the damn poem.
That's all I want. In the mean time i'll live in ignorant Canadian successful bliss, signing autographs on the back of my notebooks.. repeatedly...
The title and subject of this piece combined with the extensive rant I've included here provide for some pretty spiffy irony. That's all I have to say.
Talk Talk Talk,
Why must we talk so much?
Do we really have
so much to say
that it surpasses the need for action?
I see you love to talk, and to have your
opinions known.
But have we
ever thought, that perhaps all our
talk, simply dissipates
as hot air into the smog?
With all this talk we're built up so high,
as our voices battle
towards the sky.
We discuss our beliefs, yet then sigh with
relief as we
tip our hats to another
problem solved.
And better still is when we
protest and scream whilst
living in luxury
that our government is for the dogs.
Would you still so heavily speak
of unfair tax
between sipping wine from
a crystal glass
if you knew of the ignorant stench
that rises from your tongue?
You have not been to Hell and back,
Hell will not be frozen by your arrogant
talk of empathy and your lack
of
tact.
No, your talk heeds nothing,
save for the illusion that you're
helping somebody.
But alas we still
chat, avidly catapulting
our ideas into space - their
absence of gravity
reflecting our lack
of ambition and grace.
Change begins when we talk, but
does nothing when we
talk
without
stop.
And as the world cries we forget
to refute the lie that said
that something ever came
from nothing.
Anyone out there? Never mind, I can just sit here, assuming that this blog is reaching somebody as I feel productive like an accomplished writer.
What an entertaining thought, "productivity"...Here on planet Canada, it's summer time. Apparently this means I have no energy. Whatsoever, at any time, ever. I am a blob of blonde goo wilting off of a decomposing log into a puddle, deep within a Scandinavian forest that no one will ever bother to discover.
Deep eh?
You're probably looking at your computer screen while sneering and thinking, "ew, bitch thinks she's funny or some shit."
Just read the damn poem.
That's all I want. In the mean time i'll live in ignorant Canadian successful bliss, signing autographs on the back of my notebooks.. repeatedly...
The title and subject of this piece combined with the extensive rant I've included here provide for some pretty spiffy irony. That's all I have to say.
Talk Talk Talk,
Why must we talk so much?
Do we really have
so much to say
that it surpasses the need for action?
I see you love to talk, and to have your
opinions known.
But have we
ever thought, that perhaps all our
talk, simply dissipates
as hot air into the smog?
With all this talk we're built up so high,
as our voices battle
towards the sky.
We discuss our beliefs, yet then sigh with
relief as we
tip our hats to another
problem solved.
And better still is when we
protest and scream whilst
living in luxury
that our government is for the dogs.
Would you still so heavily speak
of unfair tax
between sipping wine from
a crystal glass
if you knew of the ignorant stench
that rises from your tongue?
You have not been to Hell and back,
Hell will not be frozen by your arrogant
talk of empathy and your lack
of
tact.
No, your talk heeds nothing,
save for the illusion that you're
helping somebody.
But alas we still
chat, avidly catapulting
our ideas into space - their
absence of gravity
reflecting our lack
of ambition and grace.
Change begins when we talk, but
does nothing when we
talk
without
stop.
And as the world cries we forget
to refute the lie that said
that something ever came
from nothing.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Never Let Go
This is old, but why not?
Happy Ju-ly ,
Two hands clasped,
Silhouetted by the same
moonlight
That makes the damp
streets glisten.
Night’s cloak blackens
the park,
As two figures sit
watching
The endless waves in a sea of stars
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Whispers of the Dark
Alright,
So I've finally, sort of, kicked myself back into gear. This isn't saying much, as I wasn't that productive writing-wise even back when I considered my days not totally irrelevant to all other life on earth. For the most part, I feel I've learned to keep hold of my string of cheap pearls and keep etching away at the notebook, instead of feeling sorry for myself the majority of my waking hours. I don't expect you to know what I mean by that, but just bare with me, I'm technically still a teenager; I feed off of vague and borderline meaningless metaphors.
Anywho, moral of the story, this is the first piece I've birthed after a long hiatus and thus it's not of super duper quality. HOWEVER, I've read the thing over quite a series of times and I've grown kind of fond of the feel it delivers. I'd love to know if you feel the same....if anyone else exists out there..
anyone...
He awoke gasping, his lungs like claws
grasping for air.
It was a gas that filled his chest in a second and departed as if repelled from his body by some greater outside force.
His eyes darted about his skull in their fury to explain
this new setting.
this new setting.
Despite having only been conscious for a few moments, he could
sense the
stench
of the heavy atmosphere that
hung
over his body and was being
shoved out from his chest.
hung
over his body and was being
shoved out from his chest.
His body continued the panic as his spine and leg muscles
wrenched
wrenched
and writhed,
collapsing downwards when they were defeated by the straps
that held him
in place.
His body wrenched again, his movements increasing in
ferocity until
he heard a cry rise from beneath him
that bore a sound of a creature unknown
to mankind.
The cry turned into a blood boiling howl as his
struggle against his binds
fueled his panic and his panic
fueled his
struggle.
His throat and chest now seemed as if they were in flames, and it was
only when that fire
overtook him and his body
ceased
its convulsions that he realized
that the hellish howl had come from
within him.
His eyes strained and fought their sockets to gather in any
light, finding none -
save for a dull yellow glow that illuminated the odor
that hung
in the air.
He lay there, still. His surrender enabled him
to now sense the darting movements.
As his brain throbbed with adrenaline, his ears began to pick up
those whispers.
Whispers of the dark.
He could hear the evil breathing out of them, despite
not understanding the devilish
tongue.
He shivered as the voices grew
more harsh and
more violent. He felt hot,
putrid breath
petting his flesh where the skin had been sanded away by
his struggle
his struggle
against the binds.
The whispers grew louder still and became voices that carried
a rancid language;the sound
burning his skin.
But it was the
tongues.
Narrow and forked they reached out to lash his naked
skin, his eyes, his skull.
It was then, as he listened, that
his heart burst into flame
He finally understood
the words,
as they whispered,
"Welcome, brother.
Welcome to Hell"
Friday, June 22, 2012
In A Moment.
Hello Folks,
oh, i mean, helllo No-one.. :)
I forgot about this poem until I found it in a notebook recently. I really like it.
You should let me know how it makes you feel, too. .. anywho,
Be my guest -
In A Moment.
Blurry Echoes forever lingering,
Struck by their passing,
that is when I fear them the most.
Such beautiful encounters; find beauty in
simplicity.
Create the thread of intimacy,
that I view as so sacred
to bare.
May they never be forgotten, may they never
be scoffed,
As tragedy would then seer its mark
on every beautiful smile
that was.
Oh the risks
to love, to expose
the soul to its most
notorious destroyer
Yet,
to breathe within the moment,
the moment that will be added to that collection,
is the most blissful scene;
Oh how it brings me peace.
Struck by their passing,
that is when I fear them the most.
Such beautiful encounters; find beauty in
simplicity.
Create the thread of intimacy,
that I view as so sacred
to bare.
May they never be forgotten, may they never
be scoffed,
As tragedy would then seer its mark
on every beautiful smile
that was.
Oh the risks
to love, to expose
the soul to its most
notorious destroyer
Yet,
to breathe within the moment,
the moment that will be added to that collection,
is the most blissful scene;
Oh how it brings me peace.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Pursuit of Dust
Uh, hey blog..
Today I write for you, blog! A journal entry of no fictional nature...
Today I write for you, blog! A journal entry of no fictional nature...
Ever have those days when you think,
"what the heck do I even have going for me?"
Well, 4am confession time, I can't get away from that
line. Glances in the mirror remind us [or i guess i'll speak for myself] that I
am the embodiment of that thought. That string of words creates a meaning that
hangs like some aged wooden sign at the back of my skull.
It's always there, and when I shake my head around to try to
get the creative juices flowing, it swings through that hollow cranial cavity
and hits me right in the temples.
Basically I'm burnt out. I hate to sound like a
hypochondriac -- but I have anxiety issues; something I never thought I'd have
to deal with. But it sucks me dry, it absorbs all my emotional energy. Instead
of throwing my mental energy into composition, it gets eaten by this parasite--
this filthy anxiousness that never ceases quivering. Time is its parent.
Apart from that, I'm watching my nature change. This
shouldn't be a bad thing, this should be a healthy thing. Not in this case. The
way I'm seeing it, I'm falling backwards. The anxiety has taken away my
confidence, even in the way I interact with strangers/acquaintances or respond
to new situations. I'm more and more reminded of my 14 year old self, and that
makes me wretch.
I can't afford to fall back towards the type of person that
says nothing. One that has an opinion but doesn't care to fight for it. One
that tip-toes around the intimidation of peers. absolutely not . I want to
bring something to the other members of humanity.......
and say "hey, look what I have to offer.."
Problem is, assertiveness requires a shell filled with
confidence behind it; a person rich in assuredness and faith in their
ability.
(don't mock my visuals, i haven't written in a long time)
.
Right now, I feel that shell is empty. My body is empty. I
can put on my confident face or attitude for a time, but after a short while
I'm exhausted by the weight of trying to carry a dense personality with a
shivering shell that asks,
"what the heck do I even have going for me?"
I've let it all go. I've dropped all that I was originally
offered. I'm scared to touch the piano for fear I'll have retained nothing. I'm
afraid to start a painting, for fear a) i won't finish b) my piece will be boring
- it will be the same offer I always bring to the table. immature. meaningless.
I pick up my pen to write and I'm appalled at what comes
out. It's dry. It's lifeless. It's boring. It's immature. It is foolish.
What have I to offer? What the hell do i even have going for
me?
Motivation? Skill? Intellect? Pft. Things I used to hold
dear. Things I thought I could associate myself with.
Nah, it's a hoax. We train ourselves to live up to the hoax;
the invisible image that paints us as what we want to be. We then paint
ourselves, but we are not the embodiment. So fuck you.
At least not those of us with nothing more solid to stand on
than an empty shell.
Empty of motivation, empty of energy. Empty of skill, empty
of intellectual ability. I'm not an artist, I'm not a quick thinker. I'm just
someone. Someone who's run dry of paint with which to create the image of what
I want to do. ya, to be.
what do i have going for me? i sure as hell don't know. What
do I have to offer? i sure as fuck don't know.
I'd like to end this on a positive note. To run off in a
trail of dust, wherein sits a whimsical phrase discussing my turn around - my
pursuit of motivation.
But I can't.
Not yet.
Ya, not yet. There's a strand of hope. Stringy little
strands. ... lol.
I will admit that I take for granted a lot of things in my
life. I love my God and my faith, And I
love my other half. still a keeper.
Look at a situation, and find something positive about it.
Search, and change your perspective. Find that hidden, glowing aspect. cling to
it.
You don't need an entire string of pearls to see the value
in just one - washed with salt water ...
And if that's what it takes to keep your head above water,
then its purpose is endless.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Hate.
I feel disgusting.
In the sense that i have no creative productivity, yet i swear my subconscious is demanding i find an outlet for,
i dunno. whatever's going on up there.
But for now, i'll just keep posting old stuff. better than nothing.
This is a description of Hate.
In the sense that i have no creative productivity, yet i swear my subconscious is demanding i find an outlet for,
i dunno. whatever's going on up there.
But for now, i'll just keep posting old stuff. better than nothing.
This is a description of Hate.
In the beginning it is small, perhaps even insignificant as
it clings to the breath it seizes from the attention we give.
Seeded by lies and fed through hypocrisy, it grows in
resemblance to ignorance.
Masked in many different auras, its subtle yet rapidly
burgeoning smog will engulf and possess even the most innocent and angelic
people.
It is
heartless,
It is
vicious,
Yet its evil
has become commonplace,
Blending and
concealing its destructive capacity within our societal norms.
Seeping
through us, it has caused an unhealthy bleed of human ethics and common sense.
It is our
condescending glances,
Our swift
lashes of the tongue,
Our assumed
intelligence,
Our blatant
ignorance.
Symptoms,
subtle but toxic indicia of a decaying respect for humanity,
It destroys
us,
And we don’t
seem to care.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Never Let Me Go
Hello no one,
It's been a while, lady no-one.
So this is a more recent piece, I think it was composed last summer >_>
I hope to really get back into this in the summer; I'm done my semester at this point so technically my summer is now. I'll have to get ambitious.
I know for now this stuff has a juvenile air to it, but give it time, we're all growing.
I hope whoever's lurking out there likes this; or at least reads it.
Evan's thoughts swirled around the edges of his brain, following the motion of the whisky in his shooter. The alcohol buzzed down his throat and sent its echo throughout the rest of his body. He blinked as the dim lights that illuminated his corner of the bar buzzed and blurred. He lifted his glass slightly and brought it back down to the scarred counter top, the noise beckoning another filling. Evan liked the people here, they didn't cut him off. They didn't care.
Almost as soon as the thought finished drifting across what little consciousness was left, a rattling motion shook the far end of the bar. His gaze panned from right to left.
Evan lifted the glass to his mouth. 'This is who I am.' The phrase came and played through his mind as if it was a ghostly broken record, returning every night so that it wouldn't be forgotten. The phrase propped Evan up, gave him identity. Purpose. That's why he came here every night.
The far end of the room rattled and shouts rose up. Evan felt hot breath drift towards his neck as the bar-girl approached him, again.
"Look at them going at it over there, same thing every night..." She said in a whisper that slithered through her lips. "Why can't they just take it outside..."
Evan turned to watch her speak. The enamel of her teeth glowed in the dim light, contrasting deeply with her darker complexion. She turned to face him. He pulled his face back.
She brought her body closer, bringing her elbows together as she leaned over the countertop.
Evan's vision focused on the cascade of vodka that fell into his shooter and then blurred again as he leaned back and shook out his hair. The words coming out of the bar girl's mouth seemed to slur and tangle in his fingers.
He left the shot and nosily got up from his seat, ignoring the ongoing susurrations of the bar girl. This scene unfolded similarly every night, and every night Evan just couldn't be interested. Not since that night.
Chairs screeched and screamed as he slid them out of his path. The other customers filling the bar with smoke and natter remained completely unfazed by Evan on his jagged route out.
He reached what had to have been the door as the bartender offered a goodnight. He mumbled something of a response as he stumbled outside into darkness.
The chill of the September night immediately slipped down his throat and woke up his bones; he shook his head again as he waited for the blur to fade.
Emerging from the blur she appeared. The ghost he had created. She was his hindrance. No matter where he was, no matter how much he drank, she would always find him. She followed him into the bar, and she sat silently beside him as the other girls offered favours. She would follow him outside as he lit his smoke, and she would follow him home.
How he wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and never let her go like he had done before. He wanted feel her again, run his hands through her delicate hair and prove to himself that she was still there, comforting him. But all he felt of her now was the cold disappointed stare of her invisible eyes.
Evan wanted to claw out the sting in his eyes, claw it out and then rip the memories and mistakes out of his brain.
But instead he was left there helpless, a victim to the painful infection of regrets. The air around him stirred and flew past him, painting tears across his face.
- Vox Sententia
It's been a while, lady no-one.
So this is a more recent piece, I think it was composed last summer >_>
I hope to really get back into this in the summer; I'm done my semester at this point so technically my summer is now. I'll have to get ambitious.
I know for now this stuff has a juvenile air to it, but give it time, we're all growing.
I hope whoever's lurking out there likes this; or at least reads it.
Evan's thoughts swirled around the edges of his brain, following the motion of the whisky in his shooter. The alcohol buzzed down his throat and sent its echo throughout the rest of his body. He blinked as the dim lights that illuminated his corner of the bar buzzed and blurred. He lifted his glass slightly and brought it back down to the scarred counter top, the noise beckoning another filling. Evan liked the people here, they didn't cut him off. They didn't care.
Almost as soon as the thought finished drifting across what little consciousness was left, a rattling motion shook the far end of the bar. His gaze panned from right to left.
Evan lifted the glass to his mouth. 'This is who I am.' The phrase came and played through his mind as if it was a ghostly broken record, returning every night so that it wouldn't be forgotten. The phrase propped Evan up, gave him identity. Purpose. That's why he came here every night.
The far end of the room rattled and shouts rose up. Evan felt hot breath drift towards his neck as the bar-girl approached him, again.
"Look at them going at it over there, same thing every night..." She said in a whisper that slithered through her lips. "Why can't they just take it outside..."
Evan turned to watch her speak. The enamel of her teeth glowed in the dim light, contrasting deeply with her darker complexion. She turned to face him. He pulled his face back.
She brought her body closer, bringing her elbows together as she leaned over the countertop.
Evan's vision focused on the cascade of vodka that fell into his shooter and then blurred again as he leaned back and shook out his hair. The words coming out of the bar girl's mouth seemed to slur and tangle in his fingers.
He left the shot and nosily got up from his seat, ignoring the ongoing susurrations of the bar girl. This scene unfolded similarly every night, and every night Evan just couldn't be interested. Not since that night.
Chairs screeched and screamed as he slid them out of his path. The other customers filling the bar with smoke and natter remained completely unfazed by Evan on his jagged route out.
He reached what had to have been the door as the bartender offered a goodnight. He mumbled something of a response as he stumbled outside into darkness.
The chill of the September night immediately slipped down his throat and woke up his bones; he shook his head again as he waited for the blur to fade.
Emerging from the blur she appeared. The ghost he had created. She was his hindrance. No matter where he was, no matter how much he drank, she would always find him. She followed him into the bar, and she sat silently beside him as the other girls offered favours. She would follow him outside as he lit his smoke, and she would follow him home.
How he wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and never let her go like he had done before. He wanted feel her again, run his hands through her delicate hair and prove to himself that she was still there, comforting him. But all he felt of her now was the cold disappointed stare of her invisible eyes.
Evan wanted to claw out the sting in his eyes, claw it out and then rip the memories and mistakes out of his brain.
But instead he was left there helpless, a victim to the painful infection of regrets. The air around him stirred and flew past him, painting tears across his face.
- Vox Sententia
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