batmanbabe3

batmanbabe3

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My future is...loading, please wait. Next year, I will...loading, please wait. I can't wait until I graduate, then I'll...loading, please wait. Hopefully I figure this out soon.

haunt

Hey eyes had a haunted quality, shadowed and hollow, like looking into an empty room through a dark window. She blinked and turned away.

olive

A small glass jar on the second shelf of that eight-year-old fridge.

Something about being picked, being the one. I want to be that choice fruit you lift from the display, that perfect shirt that stands out on the rack, that left turn you make instead of right. Instead, I'm the bruised fruit at the back of the shelf, the ripped sweater hidden behind the scarves, the right turn that is shadowed, slightly less perfect than the left turn. I want to be chosen and I'm not.

There was nothing miraculous about how she had survived. She hadn't meant to live. So she didn't consider it a miracle that she had lived. Everyone had been so happy and alive when they had pulled her out of the water. They all thought it was an accident. She had only felt hollow. Like something had been removed from her chest and left a gaping hole. The same way she'd felt for the last two years. She watched birds fly past her hospital window and wished she hadn't been seen by a jogger and rescued by police. They should have just left her there.

She tucked the flashlight under her chin and slipped her slender fingers into the crack between the window panes. The window slid open noiselessly. Perfect. She slid into the house and followed the directions she had memorized. Second door on the right, staircase up a level, third door on the left. She pushed the door open, which swung on silent hinges. Her flashlight scanned the room. There were various works of art hanging on the walls, leaning against cabinets, standing on pedestals. She wasn't here for the sculptures, although she was sure they were worth thousands. She quietly rifled through the frames that were leaning against each other, obscuring the paintings they encased. She found the three pieces she was after. Two of them were of flowers or fruit, the third was of a naked woman looking off into the distance. She worked on commission and, being promised a lot for these pieces, she new they were worth something huge.

The stems are bare, reaching to the sky with tiny claws. The petals have all fallen away, the leaves have been stripped. Eager for spring, the roses burst into life, only to be stung by a sudden and jealous frost. Left withered and crumpled, the black stalks with their thorns and spikes stand alone, pointless and ugly and tough.

level

She slapped him across the face, then stepped back in horror when his eyes jumped open in surprise. He had managed to pull her down to his level. He watched her hand in shock. She had never hit him before. She didn't know why he was so surprised. He hit her enough that this should have happened long ago. She turned around and walked away.

I'm feeling lethargic and lazy. The sun feels so good on my back, my wings spread to catch the warm and gentle breeze. I close my eyes briefly, letting my body sink into the support of the yellow air. My wings loosen and I drop slightly. I open my eyes and pump my wings, my heart beating just a little harder. Whoops. The weather is so nice. The perfect day. Suddenly a shot screams out, a metal bullet flies from a gun. It embeds itself in my chest. Pain explodes and radiates. There is nothing but the too-hot pulsing of heat and light in the center of my body. My wings give way and I plummet to the ground, unable to keep myself aloft. I catch myself before I hit the ground with a crash. My body is crumpled and unresponsive. Heavy boots run to me. "Holy shit. It's a girl." I blackout.

He was analytical by nature. He would put everything into an equation. He didn't let emotions get in the way. Everything was either black or white. There was no grey. How could people believe there was a grey? But that all changed when he saw her. She was beautiful. An American sweetheart, complete with braided pigtails and Chuck Taylor's that were laced up to her ankles. She smiled at him in passing and his equations went out the window.

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writing since 2012 · 31 entries · 30 days shown up

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on this day 10 years ago

Emma wrote about olive
“A small glass jar on the second shelf of that eight-year-old fridge.”

the words Emma reaches for

momentseyestreeswindowdooropenmotionwatchedagainsthandgroundfaceperfecthelphouseslightly