dela87
Let's rant. Let's punch. Let's kiss. Let's drink. Be upwardly mobile. Point with full-bellied laugh at the tripped. Feed the hunger. Cry in the shower. Fall in hate. Leap in love. Kiss some more. Die happy. Live forever.
Whenever I see the word "violent" I think of purple. I wonder if anyone else has genders, colors, and personalities for certain letters, numbers, and words.
It was his company's last dinner party.
He felt excited and relieved when he heard her reach the bottom of the stairs. For once, she didn't carry the heavy, dragging sound of flip-flops and slippers. The fact that they were named "flip-flops" and "slippers" and carried such an obnoxious cackle, made him conclude that they were doubly stupid.
No, this time she was escorted by the seldom sound of high heels. It was as intoxicating to him as her spicy Burberry perfume, which he could already smell from the kitchen. The cadence of her walk led him to anticipate pearls- no!- a black, lacy choker, a tightly wound bun of hair, and something, anything red. He sort of prayed for these things. He had become desperate to impressed his VP Jeff. She had become erotic capital.
I can't be won over again. This time, my Resignation of You will not be undone. In fact, Resignation of You and I are like best friends. Resignation has my back. I trust it. It tells me when to give it up, when I've had enough. And Resignation has been "screwed to the sticking place." We are tight. And affixed. And for good, I am through with you.
If I have to bow to another request by you, to another command that suggests that my joy and happiness is not a priority in the Grand Plan- if I am asked to cower again under your weighty shadow of neglect and "purposeless-ness", endless servitude, invisible reward- if i am asked to bow again, I think I'll leave you and I'll leave you for Good.
I am plagued by the quality, or lack thereof, of this website. Thank you for the words, my Muse. @Jbyrd
I think i may be dyslexic. Whenever I see 'maroon', I think of the word moron. Maroon. Moron. Maybe I'm just the latter of the two words. Or maybe not dyslexic, just illiterate. Either way, I'm screwed as a writer.
I am under my husband's spell. After all of these years, he remains my Truelove. My Enchanter. It's his cologne, his deeply-toned voice, and the way I have to look all the way up at him. He's a giant redwood and his spell sheds down on me like leaves.
"...Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six..." That was her fifth time shouting to twenty-six, ending the besetting ritual. By the end of it all, she sat back in the chair, sweating and panting. Her blonde highlights clung to her forehead and nape like wet grass. She'd never had an episode in public before. She had just gotten there and was embarrassed.
The doctor stared from across the room, motionless, barely breathing. The only sign of life from him was the slow, circular rubbing of his thumb and index fingers together. He took his time with her, having battled ticks and rituals himself. After a minute of silence he sympathetically muttered the rehearsed shrink-question that, by law, he had to ask. "So Blake, what brings you here today."
Blake, still a little flush by the the episode, snatched two Kleenexes from their cartons. "I think you might be my father."
She had driven all kin and heirs away; She was so wealthy, she would gloat, "I could pay someone to wipe my backside everyday for the rest of my life if I so desired." She was right.
But when the time came- when she was forced, in her elderly age, to be assisted to the restroom, to be lifted off of the commode by a nurse instead of a niece, she felt betrayed by the money that rendered such elusive pride. She hated the villain she had become. She resented the savior that money failed to be.
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writing since 2011 · 33 entries · 28 days shown up
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