June 18, 2013
ensnared…..

I first noticed her sitting inside Starbucks, frantically scribbling in one of those spiral bound notebooks like you had in high school. It was wide ruled, so perhaps Middle School is more likely. I’m not sure why that stuck out so blatantly, like a neon flashing sign above her head, blinking “ODD” on and off. She, well okay, the notebook, grabbed my attention completely. 

There was nothing remarkable about her, she wore a simple pair of black pants and a white button down shirt. The kind of shirt that molds to a woman’s shape and has that slippery look, but isn’t actually silk, and is de rigueur for the “Modern American Woman”. You see women like that in every office building in the Country, like they’ve been stamped out of a mold on an assembly line.

Her bright blonde hair was cut shoulder length, with what I thought of as a severe part on the right side. Each hair seemed to be held perfectly in place, just so. The red tapping nails of her left hand, the only contrast to the black and white of her clothing. She didn’t seem aware of the click, click, click of her nails on the table. The more I watched the more frantic the movement of her pencil, almost violently assaulting the page. Her lips, slightly twisted into a look of concentration, or perhaps it was frustration, which seemed more likely due to the state of that ever fascinating wide ruled notebook.

The tapping picked up tempo, only to stop briefly, as she drank from a cup set at just the right distance to be easily in reach, but out of the way. The brief respite stopped the frantic scraping of the pencil, as she drank, and glanced about for the first time since I arrived. It wasn’t just the notebook that grabbed my attention, then. I’d never met a woman with violet eyes. She caught me, just as I passed her table, with a look so full I stopped completely, unaware of what I was doing. Caught at that moment by the utter unexpectedness of her gaze. 

I became conscious of the people moving around me, holding their hot cups away from my body, sidling to get past as I blocked the aisle between the tables. Slowly I drifted to the seat across from her, our eyes locked together, some strange energy flowing between them. Her pupils widened as I sat, ensnared by her eyes, and the mystery of that notebook. Her voice was furry and slightly rough. It jolted through me, sending tiny thrills of electricity. Uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

“Hi! I’m Jill.”

…to be continued.

8:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnfvyKu
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: fiction prose stories unfinished stories spilled ink spilledinkprose rejectscorner creative writing asomewhatrandomhuman 
June 18, 2013
drowned out…..

He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“I’ll never be able to read your mind.”

She stirred a bit next to him, he suspected she was turning to look at him more closely. He pretended to focus on the computer screen.

“What are you talking about? You read my mind all the time!”

He continued to gaze at his laptop as he spoke, keeping his eyes aloof from her.

“No. I never have. I’ve made some possibly accurate guesses, based on my observations, but I’ve no idea what you really think. I have no idea what’s really true for you. I have no idea what your feelings and motivations TRULY are. I just guess.”

He felt her bare foot touch his, and caress slowly.

“You must be a good guesser then!”

She laughed a little laugh, as she turned back to her computer.

“God! You know me better than anyone. It’s like you see right through me.”

He shook his head slowly as her foot slid languidly along his skin. He spoke softly, most likely drowned out by the music from her laptop.

“No. I don’t know you at all.”

7:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnfgKn-
Filed under: fiction stories prose creative writing spilled ink spilledinkprose rejectscorner conversations not quite real life asomewhatrandomhuman 
June 18, 2013
almost…..

There is something wrong with me… I don’t read poetry. I don’t appreciate poetry. I don’t understand poetry. Shouldn’t it “speak to me” in some way? Because most of the time, I stare at the words so carefully arranged and it’s gibberish. It’s like there’s some secret code, the key to which I was never given. I stare, and ponder, and cypher. Trying to peel out the secret meaning of the incantations laid out in front of me. I’m empty. I can almost see, I get a shadowy evocation of emotion, and then it disappears into the misty recesses of my brain. So I sit here, seeking my own personal Rosetta Stone to unlock the mystery of words. Those so familiar friends, who’s meaning escapes me. It’s my lack, never the words. It’s the pit inside me, into which the words disappear. Dumped inside that yawning chasm, chewed up. Digested. Consumed. I don’t read poetry. I don’t appreciate poetry. I don’t understand poetry. I eat it.


6:02pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnfQA2e
(Notes: 9)
  
Filed under: fiction prose stories creative writing writing about writing rejectscorner spilled ink poetry 
June 15, 2013
indifference…..

“What’s it like to be cheated on?”

She always asks these questions when I’m concentrating on something else, in this case driving the car. I suspect she does it deliberately.

As a Man, when the woman you’re with asks you that question, your brain naturally takes a…. turn for the worse? Yeah. A turn for the worse. You expect, sooner or later, you will be having “The Conversation”. You know the one. The “honey I have something to tell you” talk. The conversation you know is true, because you’ve been avoiding it for the past few weeks. As an aside: why do people who cheat, think their partner has no clue? I’ve been cheated on. I’ve “known” every time. Maybe it’s just me, cause I pay attention, but it has never been a surprise. (Perhaps that says something about me, for not addressing my perceptions. I think it’s the difference between intuiting something, and walking in and seeing my partner having sex on the couch with someone else. I guess I just don’t trust my “intuition” enough. I should.)

“What do you mean? You trying to tell me something?”

She was silent a moment. Of course she read my mind like an open book.

“Oh cut it out! I’m keeping you forever, and there is nothing you can do about it. I just….I’m curious, because it’s never happened to me. And I want to know what it’s like. Why is it so bad? Is it because there is someone else’s dick, in a vagina? Or vice versa?” 

I thought a moment. We’d had this conversation before, and I’d not had the right answer. The one that explained my feelings adequately, but I’d been thinking. Sometimes I do that too much.

“No it’s not that, or rather I should say it’s not ONLY that. It’s more a matter of promises broken. And respect or rather disrespect.”

I could tell she was looking at me quizzically, my eyes still upon the road as I drove.

“Disrespect?”

The puzzlement was obvious in her voice.

“Sure. What else can you call it, when two people have made promises to each other, and one chooses to deliberately break those promises. Not once. Not “by accident”, or “in a moment of weakness”, but over and over again. And then proceeds to lie about it. Tells the other person, over and over that there is no problem. That their compact is still inviolate. Looks them directly in the eye, and tells them a lie. Over and over again. The disrespect is….. I can’t understand it. I literally cannot. How could you say you love some one, while disrespecting them so completely? It’s intolerable to me and… it makes love a lie, too. Because if you truly love someone, you put them, ahead of yourself. Isn’t that what love is all about? Self-sacrifice? So not only has that person, broken a promise, disrespected their mate, but the cheater also destroyed the love that used to be between them. So. What’s it like to be cheated on? For me, it’s been the same: an ending. The broken promises, the disrespect, the destruction of love all have added up to one thing: indifference. That kind of cheating has lead me to return what I’ve gotten. Indifference.”

She didn’t say much of consequence the rest of the ride.

9:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnR2dGI
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: prose fiction stories spilled ink spilledinkprose creative writing rejectscorner asomewhatrandomhuman love indifference cheating 
June 13, 2013
thrown away…..

I’ve lost track now, of the times I’ve been thrown away. Discarded like a bag of trash from the local burger joint. I’m sure you’ve seen those bags, carelessly tossed from the window of a moving car, bits and pieces blowing away in the wind. Is it weird that I stop to pick them up? I feel some kind of strange connection to those used up discards, at least I can give them a good and final ending. I think it’s the carelessness that gets to me the most. I’d like, someday, to be more than the trash thrown unthinkingly out the window. To have an ending, that’s more than the feckless pitching of used up trash. That’s what those bags are, the thoughtless result of a deliberate act.  If that makes any sense. I hope to have an ending, that is deliberate, and Human. Complete and final. I suspect my wish is forlorn, because surely in some way I deserve to be tossed out like garbage. To be carelessly tossed away. There has to be a reason. 

Doesn’t there?

7:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnHDGkn
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: fiction prose stories rejectscorner spilled ink spilledinkprose asomewhatrandomhuman creative writing 
June 12, 2013
need…..

“You need to let me up.”

The false calm in her voice came as no surprise. Her body moved against me, testing my strength. Measuring my resolve. 

“You don’t understand, you can’t understand. Let me up. Let me go. I need too. I need it, it’s the only thing that will let me feel better. Be better.”

By the last word there was nothing left of that pretend calm, as the words flowed her true emotions poured into the words. As the tears flowed down her cheeks. I think they were tears of frustration, rather than some other emotion. Frustration that I wouldn’t be moved. Frustration, that I would keep my promise. 

As she cried, and pleaded with me, the struggle grew more fierce. She twisted, pushed, fought with all the strength she had to get free of my embrace. She would have punched or bit, had I let her. She tried everything within her power to break free, but I’m a large powerful man. It was a contest she would never win. A contest I will never let her win. Her body was wracked with emotion, her cries and tears ripping at me. I knew it would happen, but I still wasn’t ready.

She fought with the only thing she had left. Her words. She cut me then, over and over. Her words stabbing into me, deliberately designed to evoke the most pain. To create the greatest desire on my part to go. To quit. To give up. She hurt me, like she never could physically. She hurt me until the tears stood in my eyes, burgeoning but never shed. She cut me, until she ran out of words, and she’d run out of strength. She squirmed, and mumbled but I never let go.


I held her, until she fell asleep. And I haven’t stopped.

3:08pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvnBXyEL
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June 11, 2013
"The only certainty is that nothing is certain."

— Pliny the Elder

11:00pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvn8pbBa
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Fiction Prose stories rejectscorner spilled ink spilledinkprose Creative Writing asomewhatrandomhuman 
June 11, 2013
lulled…..

She broke me. She broke me with a glance and a whisper. The soft gentle touch of her hands and the pleasant susurration of her voice calmed me. Assured me. Lulled me. She broke me with the gentle caress of her fingers on my arm, the brush of her lips on mine. I was lured in by the scent of her, the taste of her. She broke me upon the sharp bite of her womanhood. The nip of her teeth, the sound of her laugh, the sun in her smile. She broke me in the dark, with whispered secrets, full of truth and lies. She wrapped me in her thoughts, and in her dreams. The theater of her mind created enrapturing illusions, ensnaring me within their grey-scale facsimile of reality. She broke me. I’m broken.

10:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvn8Yz-J
Filed under: fiction prose creative writing spilled ink spilledinkprose rejectscorner asomewhatrandomhuman stories 
June 11, 2013
stares…..

I know inanimate objects don’t have eyes. Or feelings. I know it, but I swear upon everything that is holy, my road bike stares at me. It stares at me every time I go into the garage. And don’t ride it. It’s staring, and sad, and angry, and disappointed. And lonely. It’s looking at me with the longing of a lover who’s been away, or waiting, too long. It’s that kind of stare that brings the guilt, whatever it may be, just to the surface of your mind and holds it there. Like that lover would. It stares, quiet and implacable. Because it’s always there for me. Waiting. Eager. Joyful. Responsive. Accusing. I know inanimate objects don’t have feelings, but I know one thing without doubt: my bicycle loves me.

7:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvn7piSH
(Notes: 20)
  
Filed under: prose creative writing rejectscorner bikes riding love asomewhatrandomhuman life about 
June 11, 2013
never tell…..

I write a lot of stuff, and most of it is complete bullshit. Do you really think the things I put down here are real? None of this is real, because in the end we are never real. How we show ourselves to the world is simply an illusion to cover up all the twisted nastiness we harbor inside. I believe that, with every ounce of my being. People are bad. Every. Single. One. None of you will ever know the truth of me. I won’t teach you. I’ll never see the truth of you. You won’t show me. You’ll see carefully crafted images of thoughtfulness and sorrow and few touches of gray, but nothing truly bad. You won’t see me. I won’t let you. I’ll see the carefully constructed illusions you create to fool me, your friends, the world. I won’t see you. You won’t let me. I won’t let you know what I see in you either, because then i might lose my advantage. My edge. I’ll keep those glimpses I get beneath the veil of illusion you’ve woven, to myself. Knowledge is power, right? I do slip sometimes, and say a bit too much. Once in a while. Every now and again. It’s something I’m working on, trying to fix. Honesty? It has no place in the world of Man.

6:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvn7ZeYm
Filed under: fiction prose stories rejectscorner spilled ink spilledinkprose creative writing asomewhatrandomhuman writing life illusion 
June 11, 2013
no one…..

“Who are you?” Curiosity evident in her voice, and something… Something behind the mirrored mystery of her eyes. He couldn’t tell what.

“No one”, he said as he turned.

A confusion that he would never see filled her eyes as she watched him walk slowly away. 

‘What’s your name?”, she called.

He turned the corner out of view, and her answer was silence. 

8:39am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvn5PxMh
Filed under: Fiction prose stories rejectscorner creative writing asomewhatrandomhuman 
April 25, 2013
secrets…..

you see the problem is that the things left unsaid, the ideas unexplained, the thoughts unspoken, are like gravity. they pull at me constantly, with what i don’t know. it’s inevitable i suppose that the mind reacts to that unseen pull with creations of its own devising. that’s what happens to all of us when we encounter the mysterious or unexplained. we make that shadow on the wall a body standing in our room, hovering over us, twisted face and glowing eyes staring. we explain it. it’s funny how that works, reality not nearly as terrible as the nightmares grown in our imaginations. the truth never is as awful as the fantasy we create. and yet…. we still hide it. we still let the secrets create the terrors we seek to avoid. <sigh> what i create is always worse, always more terrifying, always the worst. always.

3:51pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvjWyVPa
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April 24, 2013
words…..

she told me to just write what i was feeling, as if somehow feelings were the secret key to get the words onto the paper. i laughed at her on the inside while nodding my head at her wisdom. i’m sure not one person, alive or dead, cares to see my feelings in words. why would someone want to cover themselves, even metaphorically, with such filth? she droned on offering more platitudes and generalities, i have to admit my mind wandered….

…..i wondered what she would taste like. it wasn’t a sexual thought, more like how you wonder what frogs legs, raw eggs, or dirt might taste. i wondered about her taste. whether she would be better fried, or perhaps in light creme sauce. it’s strange, but somehow in that moment i could feel the beat of her heart. the hot, urgent thumping in her chest, and i could smell her. i could smell the blood as it pulsed in that delicate blue artery in her throat, i watched it as she talked, the delicate pulsing of life, and considered it with great interest. i wonder how far the blood would spray, and how her skin would feel as i tore at it with my teeth. i could imagine the the hot salty sweetness. i could feel the struggle. i can imagine her, as the weakness claims her, as the struggle fades…

….i realized she was silent and thanked her for the words i hadn’t heard. it wasn’t words i needed to inspire me. i’m hungry.

9:00pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvjTho86
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Fiction Prose stories rejectscorner spilled ink spilledinkprose Creative Writing asomewhatrandomhuman 
March 21, 2013
fight…..

Our world is in a constant battle between fact and emotion. It’s the same conflict I see in myself, this tension between reality and fantasy. I suspect we are all a microcosm of this greater conflict. Perhaps it is simply this inner turmoil writ large that we see in the day to day events of society. I see it everywhere, in everyone I know. The tug of emotion versus the cold certainty of fact. Of course the problem is not so much the ongoing battle, but that most never recognize they are soldiers on the fields of this great conflict.  Of if they do, they convince themselves that the things they feel justify and support the things for which they fight. Picking and choosing, seeing only the bits and pieces that support the warm emotional cocoon into which they’ve chosen to immerse themselves. It’s the deadliest of drugs, emotion. And the most seductive. I hear it in the discussions, arguments, and diatribes I witness throughout my days. I see it confirmed, when I ask the unanswered question, and the anger in a persons eyes for doing so. Sadly, it’s a battle Humanity will lose, because most will never realize one simple Truth. It’s true of most who will read this, I have no doubt:

You are on the wrong side, in this fight.

8:39pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvgp2QcN
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March 14, 2013
what’s it like…..

“What’s it like….being with someone beautiful?”

It’s the kind of question only someone who knows they’re beautiful would ask, honestly. She is. She’s the kind of woman who turns heads just by being present. Hers is the kind of beauty that only becomes deeper as you get to know her, as you realize the person, inside the attractive shell. As you see the pieces she’s chosen to let you see.

“What’s it like? You’re assuming a lot there don’t you think?”

She turns and looks at me with an almost severe expression on her face. She makes a gesture with her hand that says “look at this” as she waves it across her body.

“Really? Answer the question.”

I can’t help but grin, and answer the question.

“What’s it like? Stressful honestly. I suppose if you….. we were BOTH beautiful it might not be that way, but I really wouldn’t know. Think about it: the woman you love gets the constant attention of literally EVERY man who sees her. And you KNOW you really aren’t that great a catch? That I’m really NOT that good looking….not beautiful myself? How is that not stressful? You literally KNOW she is going to find someone better, because she attracts…..everyone. It’s guaranteed to happen! So looked at just in that way, I guess you could say…..I put up with being with someone beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I truly appreciate the fact that a woman who is so much many men’s ideal (including mine!) is with me. But there is always that insecure, stupid little man inside me who knows: “she can do better”. So, I guess what I’m saying is…..I’m not with you because you’re beautiful, I just…… deal with the stress that causes.”

I’m not really sure what the look on her face meant, after all this came bursting out of me.

“So you love me, but you just….. put up with me being beautiful?”

“Uh….. I guess that is what I said, isn’t it? Huh. Weird.”

She’s like that sometimes. Completely opaque in the moment, giving away nothing. I wonder if I didn’t say enough. If maybe I should have told about all those things she tries to show to no one, that I keep catching glimpses of. I wonder if I should have told why I think she’s so beautiful, and that it has nothing to do with the “meat sack” she walks around in. Should I have talked about the little girl only I seem to see, who looks out at the world in wonder. And fear. That somehow, after all the terrible things she’s had to endure, I still see that childlike innocence and joy in her? That THAT is what makes her so beautiful to me. That no matter how hard she tries, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much she hides her true self away from everyone else….I know. I see. And that true self, is the most beautiful part she has. And for some strange reason, that part of her, the most secret inner self is shared with only one person. Me.

I wonder if I should say more, but I don’t.

12:34pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZMzpzvgF3kIx
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Fiction Prose stories rejectscorner spilled ink spilledinkprose Creative Writing asomewhatrandomhuman 
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