I can’t write, my gift is gone.

Top covers danced with black magnolias

and floral ballerina pointe shoe patterns

rest her broken bones.

Gestalt swanned feathers measure her form,

Eve’s tongue tunneled through her to freedom,

trembling her fingers in velvet waves.

“Tell me what you need, sweet thing.”

Her warden pleas like a whoremonger.

Everyone so desperate to bathe in her virgin’s blood.

“Ignore them,” she casts, and spirals away their world,

niceties and innocence taken to slaughter, as she molts from white to black. 

Toes pooling, her wings wind the stage until the spotlight tires.

Every girl’s the same devil. Eve serenades the snake in the last dark corner.

Rushing blood clouds her harlot cheeks, orgasming fast within.

“Lets you see the night sky,” made her love a lie.

Oh, the night sky was darker in the smog.

Perfect dark, perfect silence. Perfect ballerina, spinning on a music box.

Every lie felt the same.

Reprise the unfit, those that embraced imperfection, and feather out again.

Dill danced in place on the welcome mat like Colin had danced around the subject for years now. His doorstep shuffle churned his stomach uneasily, and he sweated a light film on his face, while pawing at the air in a mock knocking.

“Oh, he’s just ‘gender queer’ chic. It‘s the in thing.”

Leslie was full of it. Leslie needed a reality check. That moment wasn’t about Leslie, though, and her way of mincing the obvious into false assurances. Dill’s moment, fated to collide with Colin’s as soon as courage decided to back him up, would not be another avoided subject.

The ocean of dread that seemed to manifest itself through Dill’s leaking pores miraculously evaporated when Colin’s familiar eye line peered the window blinds in the center of the doorframe. The knob began to turn and Dill stood up straighter, not for Colin, but so that maybe the action itself might give him some backbone.

Colin’s face emerged, easily recognizable and generally comforting; he’d half-expected to encounter someone more likened to Colin’s sister, Laura. Colin discerned Dill’s demeanor, and in response, Colin tunneled into himself, gingerly folding his arms. His eyes felt low and almost shamed. Dill frowned.

Unnatural silence festered between them as Dill started gathering thoughts. The longer he stood there, watching Colin be guilty or plagued or whatever, the more wrong everything about this encounter felt.

Dill cocked his head to the side a little, and Colin flinched a bit hesitantly.

“So, yeah, what’s up?” Dill began, the knife of the conversation, stabbing.

Colin answered in a monotone, “What?”

“Well, you know,” Dill started in. “What’s going on with you? A lot I’d wager. Want to fill me in?”

“It’s not like—”

“I mean, what the fuck, Whitney, really?”

Colin looked down at his feet, expressionless.

“You really need to talk to Colin, soon,” Whitney advised, clasping her ringed hands earlier that day, and glancing over at her phone every now and then.

“You think?” Dill snapped, not angrily, but numb. He stared into the bar mirror across from him, he dead eyes looking back at him.

He’d watched the man he’d grown into mimicking his subtle movements, and realized how unrecognizable he felt.

“Tommy, he went through a lot. She went through it with him. I thought she’d give me advice. She shouldn’t have told you,” Colin finally answered, a bit pleadingly.

“So, I mean, me, I wasn’t important enough? You didn’t trust me enough?”

“Oh whatever, your feelings are hurt, boohoo; this is my life, this is my goddamn body, Dillon. It was about me doing… goddamn it, doing me, and not worrying what you thought.”

That one stung.

Dill retorted, “Oh, now that is not kosher. You know me. I wouldn’t—”

Dill paused. Their eyes forged a bridge for a moment, unspoken memories of their lives passing to and fro into dual receptors of blue and green.

Solemnly, Dill continued, “You wore my mom’s makeup on Halloween in 5^th grade. I gave you half my candy after those shit heads jumped you. What I think is that we’ve been together too long to let you doing you change a damn thing.”

A comforting, natural silence grew between Dill and Colin, warm memories having gathered. Colin, often overtly emotional, was a bit red in the face, and his eyes glazed in a soft film of moisture. He smiled, though.

“So, when does this happen?” Dill urged sympathetically.

Clearing his throat, Colin answered, “It’s not overnight. There’s plenty of stuff that goes into it, it’s a long haul, and it’s gradual.”

“You know I’m there, right?” Dill insisted, reaching out his hand and resting it on Colin’s shoulder. “Whatever.”

Colin thought on this, and looked at the hand on him.

“Obviously.”

Dill’s home welcomed him with open arms after an exhausting day overflow with the thought of adopting a new set of personal pronouns. He and his bed collided with a hungry force. Turning his head to his bedside table, his cheek pressed hard into the sheets and leaving a trail of saliva, Dill observed a scrapbook on the bottom shelf, filled with childhood photographs, that Colin’s mother had made the two of them for Christmas. He didn’t need to open it to recount most of the pictures.

The faces within it had changed, grown up. The love, in its own way, had too.

Preferably by tomorrow. Nope, just gonna stall out on that one.

In the mean time, look at things here and here. Maybe here if I get in the mood.

I’m supposed to have around 3 submissions, writing, art, or otherwise, since I’m on the editorial staff, but I literally have nothing. I wanted to do sort of a triple-threat: a short story, a short film script, and some sort of graphic design, but I don’t know how much of that I’d be able to crank out with any degree of satisfaction.

I don’t really get it either.

I’m not an avid reader. I probably should be. So, after undertaking a film challenge at the beginning of this year, and even starting a new diet regimen toward the end of 2011 that seems to be going pretty well, I think it’s high time I start getting my act together all around, and experience everything I can. So, I’m going to do a book challenge. I figured this would be the better place to post about it, rather than my personal blog. So, if any of you are still out there, I’m most likely going to be attempting 25 books this year… I’d love to do an ambitious 100, even 50, but I need to be at least somewhat realistic.

Anyway.

I’m probably going to do Haunted first, then perhaps The Hunger Games, even though I’ve already read half. So, wish me luck. And whatnot.

Good God, anyone

with half a brain should know I’m

unreliable.

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

ELLA CRANE, ghost of a Southern Belle, sits as her fingers paw against the table. Her coffee mugs sits empty in front of her.

ANGLE - CHURNING COFFEE POT

Rain SMACKS against the glass of the nearest window, and Ella turns her head to the sound. 

ELLA (O.S.)

“Life falling from the sky.”

CUT TO:

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE - DAY

ELLA

I’d always wanted to be a poet, never had the time. But I thought that idea of “life falling from the sky” for rain was so… beautiful. I didn’t know if anyone had ever used it before, so I kept it to myself; back of my mind though, I said, one day I’m gonna sit down with a cup of coffee and put pen to paper, hand to God.

THERAPIST

And did you?

ELLA

(obviously)

No.

Kyo Nagano took in a deep breath. She was kneeling before an idol of the guardian Fluve in the courtyard of the Fluveshine Temple. Her head bowed and her hands clasped together; she prayed for the temple’s peace and tranquility. It was a part of her daily duties as a priestess, and normally she would be surrounded by many girls her age, but today she meditated by herself, as the crisp wind vacuumed in from over the high, brick walls forming a square enclosure. The tree planted in the center of the small area swayed gently in the breeze, and a lone, green leaf fell off its branch and floated softly down to Kyo’s head. She smiled, brushing it off with her hand.

Kyo Nagano was just under the age of twenty, and had been serving at the temple for almost her entire life. Her hair was long and black, with gray highlights streaking throughout, and it reached just past her waistline. Her cool, blue eyes gleaned as if they were marbles. She wore the suitable temple attire, a long, billowing robe-like dress that buttoned up the back, frayed out at the bottom edge where it was dyed blue despite the rest being solid white. She had on wooden sandals that would patter against the clean tile floors of the temple’s interior, and you could often tell of someone’s impending arrival by the sound the girls’ shoes made.

A glass bow and leather quiver (fill of glass-tipped arrows) sat at her right side. Part of her duty as a priestess of the temple was to protect it from intruders, but that was one duty she rarely had to perform. The land was peaceful, free of demons for over sixty years. It was a time of peace, and Kyo could not have picked a better time to connect with the river guardian Fluve.

She then heard heavier footsteps approaching behind her.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Miss Nagano?” a man asked coolly.

She knew that voice all too well.

“Asha, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Kyo asked in the most sarcastic tone she could manage, turning around to give the man a scold.

Asha was tall, and wore a royal blue robe with a gold inlay that marked a symbol representing his family name.

“The Royal Huras,” Kyo mused.

His hair was long, white, but held up in a bun of some sort that Kyo thought seemed unsuited for a man. His most distinguishing feature was his deep and fiery red eyes. Kyo felt that every time he eyed her he could use those eyes to see through past her garments, and it sent unpleasant shivers down her body. He would be handsome, Kyo imagined, if not for his horrendous personality.

“The pleasure is,” He began. “That I’ve come to hear your decision.”

She remarked, “Oh, I’m so sorry that you came all the way down here from your marvelous castle to hear my rejection once more. The answer is still no, Asha.”

“Come now,” He insisted. “Would leaving this temple and becoming my bride be all that awful?”

“More than I could even imagine,” She responded bluntly. “And what’s worse is that you’re so obstinate about it.”

“I think you mean persistent.”

“No, I believe I chose the right word for you, Asha. I’ve had just about enough of your pleas for my hand.”

He became gruff now.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way!”

“How dare you try to sully a priestess down to the level of that of a bar matron.”

“Listen here, girl, the temple is willing to comply to your release for quite a hefty sum, but I’d rather you come of your own free will.”

“There is absolutely no way I would ever betray my faith for a man of your stature, insipid and foul mouthed. You just can’t understand what you truly are, and that is a poison-tongued serpent that is pathetic enough to force a bride out of someone who despises them.”

Asha grimaced for a moment.

Kyo continued hatefully, “What happened to that smirk of yours, Asha? Your callous nature and despicable vendetta are so much more apparent when you smile.”

She smirked.

“You don’t truly understand the position you’re in, Miss Nagano,” He replied, collecting himself and grinning once more. “It’s either live in my company…”

As rapid as a torrent of wind, Asha sprinted to Kyo and knelt behind her quickly, sliding a sharp, silver blade out of one pocket and placing the cool edge to her warm throat. She trembled.

“Or die alone,” he growled.

Her fists shook at her sides.

“If you think threatening me will increase your chances of my cooperation,” She paused to eye her quiver just beside her for a moment. “You’re gravely mistaken. I am no coward, and you’ve chosen the wrong method of dealing with me.”

In a flash, she tightly gripped a glass arrow from its holder and thrust it deep into Asha’s ankle just behind her, twisting it clockwise as she stood up. He winced in fierce pain, collapsing to the ground below.

“Seize her!” he shouted while writing on the floor.

Two men, each wearing long, cut black robes with the same insignia as Asha’s family came out of the shadows of the inner hallway of the temple; they appeared to be some sort of bodyguards. Before Kyo could reach to set her bow with its arrow, the strong men took hold of her by each arm, and as much as she struggled, she could not free herself from their grasp.

Asha began to stand up, wincing again in the pain of his wound, and hobbled over to Kyo, who continued to squirm. His hair now disheveled and his expression maddening, Asha picked up the blade which he had dropped on the floor, and held it up in front of Kyo’s face.

“That,” He uttered lowly. “Was your last word.”

Kyo closed her eyes solemnly, to pray one last time.