Just A Dream

The best dream
Is where I wake up
With someone in my arms,
A warm body pressed against mine,
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
Cool breath on my skin.

The worst dream
Is where I wake up
And realize it’s just a dream.

(41 words)

Friday Night

Friday night laundry
Is tinted with the scent of
Aches and pains chamomile salt
And post-ninjitsu tiger balm.

Friday night supper is
Handfuls of cheerios
Between staccato bursts of typing,
Fingertips on flat silver keys.

Friday night romance is
Harvesting memories from YouTube,
Liquid crystal music and lyrics and
Two boys with guitars.

(54 words)

Mal a la Tête

Lightning in the temples
And storm-clouds in the brain-stem -
The imperfect end to an otherwise
Normal day.

Hammers on the cranium,
Tap-dancing on the occipital bone,
Sharp flashes of sunlight
On bare optic nerves.

Darkness is the answer,
The skeleton key in a rusty lock
Of a treasure chest overflowing
With moonstone and dreams.

A blanket over the face,
A shroud over the corpse.

It’ll be gone in the morning.

(73 words)

Hiding From

There are so many places to go,

but today I’ll hide in a song.

Let the lyrics be blood

rushing through each vein,

ringing true in both my head

and my heart.

Let the beat slide neatly into

place, a pulse to push me

on.

I’ll move to the melody,

animate my lifeless corpse,

nerves twitching with delight.

My soul knows that

tomorrow

I may not be able to breathe

deep in harmonies and chords.

But today I hide here.

I pretend that life is as simple

as a solitary song.

(91 words)

Forgetting

One weary step following another,
Pressing forward day after day.
Rest on one hand, toil on the other,
Restless feet, I can not stay.

Something drives me forward,
My joy left far behind.
Ignored.
As I journey in my mind.

Deprivation

It’s lead in my bones that
Creep, creep, creeps up my limbs
To press its fingertips against my eyelids
And push them closed.

It’s the whisper of dreams in my ear,
Of castles on clouds and knights
Advancing on ranks of shambling zombies.

It’s the gentle, easy slide
Of Morpheus’s arms around my waist
To ease me down, down, down
To fall asleep.

On my laptop.
While my palms press random letters
Across the screen of my survey report.

It’s the groan of malcontent when
The rest of my brain reminds me I’m at work and
It’s my own fault for staying out so late last night.

(107 words)

Stream

Every part of me is

breaking

and the words refuse

to come out right

or wrong

or none at all

I wish I could fix it

I wish I could tell her

how stupid she is

for giving up a gift

that I sometimes wished

for

but that is not what he

needs

what she needs

I am a force caught

in

between

fighting a losing battle

with no way out

but to listen

and offer precarious

words of wisdom

that I do not know

if I even believe

so bury my heart

next to his

because sympathy

is all I have to give.

(104 words)

Childhood

In my heart of hearts,
When I was a child,
I too believed in love.

When I was a child,
I believed in the kind of things
that just don't exist.

Dragons and Unicorns hiding;
just over the hill.
And a knight in armor to save me.

When I was a child,
I believed in the fairytale.


(Again, not what I really wanted, but it's just not flowing today.)

Afternoon Contentment

Afternoon contentment is
The warmth of a laptop against my thighs
While the screen flashes
Arena lights
And crystalline guitar notes
Spill from the tiny speakers,
Rock’n’roll thrum and the teenage angst of
I don’t want you to want me.

Afternoon contentment is
The slick slide of needle between fingers
And coloured cotton against fingertips
A string of knots to form flowers and suns,
Stars and a smile.

Afternoon contentment is
The clacking of keyboard keys
And rhymes coming alive
Black on white,
Stark and bright.

Afternoon contentment is
The city skyline against a periwinkle sky
Peeking through blue curtains
And sunlight shining on
A day’s work done.

Never Fully Bloom

It unfurls in my chest,
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.

I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.

But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.

Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.

(107 words)

The Ghost

Ethereal, floating

on the wind,

nothing could touch you.

Nothing to feel.

And nothing would hurt you.

A ghost,

you slip past existence.

Pushing through,

passing on.

With no one to say your name.

Keener senses

cannot lie.

A muffled cry,

and whispers in the dark.

I can still feel you.

You search for something

as I, unable to fill that wanting

void,

stumble quietly through grief.

Do not despair, you will say.

For I am neither living, nor dead.

Just a ghost.

(83 words)

Uncertain

How to express all that I feel;
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.




(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)

Project Assignment #35 - Nothing More Than Feelings

Let's dive back into my element once again... poetry.

We should each write a poem every day conveying a different emotion. I seem to get stuck in a rut of only writing poems that are sad or confusing, etc. So let's branch out. Let's write some happy stuff, some angry stuff... you know what I'm trying to say.

Let's cap the word limit at 200 words. It can be shorter though if you want. Some of the best poems are only a few lines long.

Sorry for my constant disappearing act...

Overview #34: Hands

This week's assignment was hard. I think I did learn from last week's assignment, because I resisted the urge to go crazy detailed on a set of hands. I returned to the Carolyn-verse even though, in sudden retrospect, it would have been much easier to go mainline Dagaz because I have more than enough characters to fill up a week. By the time I got to the end of this week, I realized the problem with having six days in a writing week and only five main characters, so I had to take a quick readers' poll (thanks to Jade for deciding that Clay needed some love) and write the final piece.

I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)

We'll see what happens in the coming week.

Anymore

“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.

“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”

“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.

“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”

“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.

“Any word from your taller half?”

“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”

More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”

“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.

“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”

Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”

“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.

“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”

“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.

“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.

Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”

“I did, too.”

(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)

And The Boss Was Back

Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.

“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.

Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.

“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.

Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”

Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.

“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.

Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.

“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.

Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”

The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --

“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”

And the boss was back.

My Own Hands

My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.

Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.

They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.

Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.



(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)

Tiny Spiders

She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.

Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”

That just made her cry more.

Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”

Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.

“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.

“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”

Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.

Not Your Fault

“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.

Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.

His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.

“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.

She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.

“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”

“Summers, she’s obviously high --”

“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”

“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.

Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.

“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.

She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.

After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?

“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”

Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”

The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.

Which Wire

"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.

Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.

"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."

Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.

Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.

Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.

"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."